


Specificity

by swtalmnd



Series: Tea and Knitting [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, First Time, Knitting, M/M, Romance, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 06:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6504616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/pseuds/swtalmnd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur runs a tea shop that does custom blends on the fly. Eames designs knitwear. This is how they meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Specificity

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to kate_the_reader and Iambickentameter for the betas! And to tumblr fandom in general for offering so much help when I asked. I'm amysnotdeadyet on tumblr - come say hi!

The window of the shop read, "Specificity: fine and unique teas." When he went inside, Eames found that the entire wall behind the counter was covered floor-to-ceiling with wooden drawers, complete with a rolling ladder to reach the highest ones. There were no labels, but when the woman in front of Eames asked for some sort of bizarre herbal concoction, the sharp-dressed man who took her order had no problem finding the ingredients and assembling her pot of tea. 

The barista wore well-tailored grey trousers that made his arse look amazing, a matching waistcoat that emphasised the slenderness of his frame, and a grey-striped white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His tie was deep burgundy silk with a subtle brocade pattern that Eames itched to see closer, wondering how it might look knitted into a shawl or scarf. His dark hair was slicked back away from his face, mitigating the boyishness of his angular features.

"What can I get for you today?" he asked, catching Eames' gaze as the woman stepped away from the register.

Since there was no menu, Eames stepped up to the counter and smiled his most charming smile. "I'd like a pot of tea for here, but I confess I've no idea what."

"Fruity or spicy?" asked the man, his voice as crisp as his shirt and his accent starkly American.

"Erm, a bit of both, maybe?" said Eames, glancing out the windows to the grey, miserable London weather and thinking longingly of mulled wine.

"Caffeine?" was the next question.

"Please," said Eames, with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm. 

This got a little quirked smile from the man. "Anything you can't have or particularly dislike?"

"Nothing comes to mind, darling," said Eames, flirting a bit now that he was no longer feeling quite so wrong-footed. "Will it be all right if I do some knitting while I enjoy my cuppa?"

"That's why there's chairs," said the barista, fingers moving over the antique till. It was all done up with fresh paint and polished brass that matched the drawer pulls and other details that Eames was just now noticing. "That'll be six pounds fifty. I'll bring it over when it's ready."

Eames paid with a smile and a thank you despite the fact that his pot apparently cost twice what the woman's had, and left a tip in the brass bowl next to the register. He went to sit in the corner furthest from the door, where he'd be out of the way but could still watch the gorgeous barista. Who was getting up on his ladder, apparently putting something unusual into Eames' pot -- the previous customer's order had been assembled entirely from things on the middle third of the shelving, no bending or reaching required. Eames wondered about biscuits, but there were no obvious snacks of any sort, so he put it out of his mind. Crumbs and wool-silk blend yarn didn't mix, anyway.

Eames pulled out his latest project, a distressed-look sweater for this punk kid he'd met last week. Eames hoped he would be still around to get it by the time it was done, and hoped even more the kid was off the street or at least in a shelter. It took a minute to figure out where he'd left off, but his hands knew just what to do next once he got his mind oriented. He suspected he ought not use such good yarn for someone who wouldn't necessarily be able to care for it. On the other hand, it'd be durable and not need much washing, especially in the variegated grey-black that was the inspiration for the whole project. 

Eames was well into his first row when a tray was set down next to him containing a steaming pot of tea, a proper cup and saucer, a creamer of milk, and a sugar bowl filled with raw sugar, all of them in a lovely abstract black-and-white pattern with gold accents. There was a spoon in the sugar, and another next to the saucer, resting on a real cloth napkin with a stylised S embroidered on it in black.

"Your tea," said the man, slipping a business card onto the tray as if it was an afterthought. He turned and walked away, and Eames shamelessly watched him go before reading the card.

Printed in a simple gold script were the words, "Your tea today is..." Below that was a neat list of ingredients in black pen, which explained the card the woman had been reading from for her order. The back had the shop's logo and the usual information, hours, location, and one more precious nugget, the man's name: Arthur Levine, proprietor. Eames pocketed it without reading the ingredients and poured himself a cuppa, milk first, then tea, and finally a good rounded spoonful of the sugar. He added it with the spoon in the sugar bowl, and stirred with the other one, imagining Arthur's disapproval should he put a wet spoon back in the sugar.

His first sip was enough of a surprise that he made a rather obscene sound. The brew was strong, and the first flavour he noticed was the malty richness of tea itself, a flavour that warmed him to his toes with its homeyness. Underneath that was a hint of spices and fruit and faraway lands, but it was subtle and not at all overwhelming or artificial the way some flavoured teas were. Eames had to work to identify the spices, cinnamon and a hint of vanilla but also other things, anise he thought, maybe cardamom, though he was possibly just guessing at that point. 

After three sips he pulled out the card, because the fruit was completely escaping him. He read the list of ingredients with great wonder. There was orange peel and, apparently, quince, which he never would have guessed in a million years, but it went perfectly. He could taste the clove now that he knew it was there, too, and he was pleased to see he was right about the cardamom. Still, the overwhelming flavour was still good strong English tea, which was also from exotic faraway lands; the card informed him it was Yunnan Pure Gold rather than some pedestrian blend.

"This is amazing," Eames said softly, looking over to where the man was putting together a tin of loose tea rather than a pot, though there was no one waiting for it.

"I'm glad you approve," said Arthur without turning away from his task.

Eames grinned at his dry tone and went back to knitting, allowing himself two sips for every row and still finishing it well before he was ready for the experience of it to be over. It had gone a bit cold by the end of the pot and he was already pondering tea cosies for his next project, despite the fact that he never sold his work and likely couldn't make enough for a place like this, anyway. That didn't stop him from taking a photo of the china pattern with his phone, mind already contemplating yarns with a bit of subtle gold sparkle to them.

Eames got up and took his tray to the front, where Arthur was helping a cheerful man who ordered, "Proper chai, like they make in Mombasa, none of that spiced shit Americans call chai."

Arthur laughed and charged him three pounds seventy for the privilege, then nodded to Eames. "I'll be a minute making Yusuf's tea, did you want another of the same?"

Eames grinned. "Less caffeine this time, please. That was a perfect delight but I will have to sleep sometime."

"Hm," said Arthur, pausing for just a moment. "Four even, then?"

"I'm entirely in your hands," said Eames, handing him a fiver and going to resume his knitting. He was pleased to hear a soft chuckle behind him, followed by the ringing cash register. He sat just in time to watch Arthur plink a pound coin into his tips bowl with a wink.

Eames winked back, then got back to the sweater. He was going top down and it was about time to start the lacework skull he was planning over the right hip, which meant paying more attention than when he was artfully dropping stitches in the body and it didn't matter much if he picked them back up after five rows or six. His eyes kept straying over to Arthur despite that, watching him as he set up a little pot on a burner he uncovered. Arthur added water, milk, tea, and sugar in amounts that looked unmeasured but Eames suspected were actually quite exacting. He seemed the sort, able to measure by eye and feel the way Eames kept track of his knitting when he was designing on the fly rather than working from a pattern.

Yusuf's chai started, Arthur went back to his drawers, one hand holding the metal cup he used to mix his herbs and spices while he went gracefully from drawer to drawer, movements deliberate and economical as he added a little of this, a pinch of that, a scant spoonful of something else. When Arthur got a few things from down low, Eames could see that each drawer had some internal compartment built into it that sealed up, which explained how everything stayed fresh. It also gave him an amazing view of Arthur's arse, and nearly caused him to drop entirely the wrong stitches.

That took Eames a moment to untangle and get back on track, but hopefully he wouldn't have to frog the whole row, always a tricky proposition with a design like this. By the time he'd looked back up, Arthur was pouring water into a teapot, apparently done with his gathering.

"What are you making?" asked Arthur, moving around to stir the pot of milky tea that was not, as of yet, boiling.

"Sweater for a friend," said Eames, holding it up for examination. 

"That's a bit Yohji Yamamoto, isn't it?" asked Arthur, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes, obviously trying to imagine the finished piece.

"More Black Rose Gothic," said Eames wryly. He'd googled around for ideas, so he actually knew who Arthur was talking about, despite his more cavalier attitude with his own clothing choices.

Arthur looked amused, anyway, so Eames gave himself the point. "I expect next time you come in, you'll be all in Tom Ford just to surprise me," he replied, teasing.

"Am I bringing down the tone?" asked Eames lightly. He was wearing a salmon shirt with a geometric pattern in the weave and he'd draped his green tweed jacket over the back of the chair to free up his arms for knitting. With his sleeves now rolled up to show off his forearm tattoo, one might not even notice the tailored cut of his grey trousers; the joyous riot of colour in his hand-knit socks definitely overshadowed his Oxfords.

Arthur's eyes made their way back up to his face and he smirked. "You don't really match the decor."

"I'm afraid I find it terribly difficult to relax in a three-piece suit," said Eames, eyes roaming over Arthur's slender frame in turn, or what he could see of it, at least. "You wear your own designer well."

"Dolce and Gabbana," said Arthur, moving over to check Eames' teapot, removing the basket and setting the tray up between stirs of the now-bubbling chai. "Today, anyway."

"I'd expect no less," said Eames with a chuckle. He was an indifferent dresser, he knew; his love of colour and pattern outweighed any sense of dignity, which made him seem odd and flamboyant compared to someone as sharp as Arthur. "I just buy what I like."

"Or make it, unless you only knit for others," said Arthur. He was straining Yusuf's chai into its own pot now, and he deftly handled both trays. He dropped off the chai first, then came around with Eames' pot, adding another business card to the tray.

"I like knitting for friends," said Eames, "but I did make my socks."

"Thought so," said Arthur. It seemed as if he might loiter to see how Eames liked the tea, but the bell over the door rang twice and he was off to take care of other customers. Eames poured a little into the cup just to see what it was like, smelling and then tasting it. The flavour was unusual, bright and grassy with a lovely tropical note that put him in mind of sunnier climes. Arthur had provided honey this time, so Eames added a splash of milk and a bit of honey and filled his cup. The next taste was sweeter and brighter, exactly what he'd needed after the rich spiciness of his last pot.

Eames caught Arthur glancing over, so he smiled and took another drink, not wanting to interrupt the flow of commerce. Another good sip and it was time to resume his knitting, so he flipped everything back over and recounted his stitches. He'd start the lacework on the skull next row, and he wanted to make sure he got the positioning right, even if it meant less staring at Arthur.

Well, a little less, anyway.

Eames was surprised to look up from his final sip to find the place deserted and Arthur flipping the sign on the door. "Have I overstayed my welcome?" he asked.

"When you do, you won't have to ask," said Arthur, "but I will have to kick you out in about half an hour."

"I'll do one more row and then be out of your hair, then. Ta," said Eames, smiling over at him. He'd made it well into the skull and wanted to get the pattern fixed in his mind before he packed up, so he appreciated the reprieve.

Arthur sauntered over and picked up his tray, grinning to feel that this pot, too, had been emptied. "You liked it."

"Of course I did, it was brilliant," said Eames, eyes glued to the knitting so he didn't lose count just as he was starting the eye sockets. "I can see why you can afford D&G running a tea shop, you're a genius."

Arthur chuckled. "This is more of a career change for me. My previous job paid for the suits." He turned and walked back behind the counter, taking the tray and his fine arse with him.

"Well, then, cheers to your previous career," Eames muttered, forcing his mind back to his knitting. He really didn't want to be kicked out for perving on the shop owner before he finished his row.

"Will you be back?" asked Arthur, efficiently cleaning and straightening up, turning off the various machines.

"Absolutely," said Eames. "Will you keep surprising me?"

When he glanced up, Arthur was leaning against the counter and smirking. "Absolutely," he said.

Eames pretended his cheeks weren't hot as he concentrated on finishing up his row, the yarn soft and smooth under his fingers. "I look forward to it," said Eames, once he was sure he wasn't going to screw up his knitting.

Arthur didn't answer, but then again, he didn't need to.

Eames finished his row in good time and packed his knitting away, checking the amount of yarn left in the skein as he did. His project bag was a quilted affair made just for knitters and covered in cartoon sheep, which he hid inside a leather messenger bag along with a few other necessities for life, including a second, smaller project bag in case he got stuck on the sweater. He was rolling down his sleeves when Arthur came over with a cloth to wipe down the table.

"Thanks for letting me stay," said Eames. He stood and moved his bag to the chair, then finished putting himself back together. "Eames," he said, sticking out his hand.

"Arthur," came the reply, and a slightly damp handshake that was otherwise firm and polite. He tossed the cloth behind the counter and gestured toward the door. "I'll lock you out."

"Ta," said Eames, heading out into the gloomy London evening to catch the Tube home. He managed to get a seat and work on the socks in his TARDIS-themed project bag. If his mind kept wandering back to the tea shop and its smartly dressed proprietor, well, no one else would be the wiser.

* * *

The rest of Eames' week was eaten up with final edits on his latest knitting pattern book. It was a bloody nightmare because Mal, the tech editor, hated the unconventional technique he was using to turn his heels and kept insisting he was doing it wrong. Given that the entire point of the collection was to show off his new way of doing heels, and it was in fact titled _Well-Heeled_ , this was more than a bit of a problem. After a completely pointless shouting match over semantics, Dominique had promised to find him someone besides her wife to tech edit the patterns while he approved the copy for the rest of it.

As a result, Eames was feeling more than a little grumpy when he showed up at Specificity the next Wednesday, only to find an elegant sign declaring it temporarily closed.

"Bloody buggering fuck," said Eames, resisting the urge to kick something. Scuffing his favourite shoes would only lead to yet more sorrow.

"Language," said a dry, familiar voice behind him.

Eames turned. "Ah, Arthur. How kind of you to grace us with your presence," he said.

"Are you using the royal we now, Mr. Eames?" asked Arthur, one eyebrow going up.

Eames held his gaze for a moment and then realised he was blocking the door and moved aside with a little bow. "Nonsense, I'm sure there's someone else just lurking nearby, dying for a cuppa."

Arthur unlocked the door and took down his neat little sign, then pointed imperiously to the corner table. "Give me five pounds and go sit."

Eames considered objecting, but it was starting to drizzle and he was, frankly, dying for a cup of Arthur's amazing tea. "Your wish is my command," he said instead, following Arthur inside. He slapped a five-pound note on the counter and then went to flop in the corner and nurse the headache that had begun to settle in between his eyebrows. "I don't suppose you've got a packet of biscuits hiding in those trousers of yours?"

"You think I could hide anything in these trousers?" said Arthur, dropping Eames' money into the tip bowl without bothering to ring him up.

Eames chuckled, taking that as an invitation to admire the way the grey windowpane check flattered the pert curves of his arse and strong, slender thighs. "I'm certain you've got secrets I'm not yet privy to in your trousers, darling."

"Yet? That's awfully optimistic." Arthur took off his suit jacket to reveal a matching waistcoat. "Be good," he added, slipping through the door to the back.

"Oh, but, Arthur, you make me want to be very bad," Eames murmured at the closed door. He sighed and started hunting through his bag for some paracetamol, determined to nip his headache in the bud. Arthur's physique was cheering, but not actually a cure.

"Are those sheep?" asked Arthur disbelievingly. He was standing beside Eames and the mess he'd made of Arthur's table, hands busy rolling his sleeves up neatly. "And those boxes from that show, what's it called?"

"You don't know Doctor Who?" said Eames, tucking his project bags away now that he'd finally unearthed the bottle of pills. "Our love can never be."

"Water," replied Arthur, which confused Eames thoroughly until he went behind the counter and filled a glass with cold water. He brought it back around and set it on the table. "For the pills."

"Cheers," said Eames, getting the bottle open and popping two, washing them down with the cool, sweet water. "This is better than I usually get out of a tap."

"I filter all the water here," said Arthur with a shrug. "It makes better tea." He took the empty glass and headed back behind the counter, intent on his drawers.

Eames had no idea what to say to that, so he busied himself reorganising his bag while Arthur worked his magic. The quiet was surprisingly comfortable, nothing but their movements and the steadily rising sound of rain on the windows as the storm outside picked up. Eames pulled the sweater out, unwilling to deal with socks for another moment this week, though he had worn one of his favourite pairs. They were made of a superwash wool in every shade of green possible, with a leaf pattern worked into the knit. The rest of his clothing was his usual tailored trousers, a patterned gold shirt, and the suit jacket that clashed the least with the rest of it.

"How's the sweater coming?" asked Arthur, the sound loud in the silence.

"It's pretty much where we left it, I'm afraid," said Eames. He hadn't had time to do much on it, though he'd taken down some notes in case he wanted to publish the pattern once it was done. He paused to take his jacket off and roll up his own sleeves.

Arthur gave him a sidelong look of disappointment as he assembled Eames' tray, as though it was some sort of personal affront that there was no more sweater to entertain him. Eames considered protesting that Arthur wasn't the one going cold without it, but gave it up as a bad job and started in on the actual knitting instead. He wanted to get the eye sockets on the skull done before he finished this pot of tea, which would take concentration and probably end with cold tea and disappointment.

Eames recognised that his current mood wasn't one he ought to be sharing, so when Arthur set the tray down he thanked him absently and didn't otherwise look up, letting the pot steam for several more stitches before he let himself pause and examine his prize. The card went into his pocket unread, though he'd look at it later; he'd kept both of the ones from last time, slipping them into one of the decorative boxes littering his bookshelves. Most of them were empty, but sometimes he hid treasures in them, though others might not see the value.

The tea this time was simple and workmanlike on the surface, a strong black tea that had a hint of bitterness to it. There was something else going on, but it wasn't until sugar and milk had been added that he tasted a touch of something floral and the barest suggestion of vanilla. He breathed a sigh of pleasure and allowed himself a good long drink, nearly draining the first cup before he went back to his knitting. He could already feel the cloud over his head lightening and breaking up, the quiet atmosphere and good tea like rays of sunshine breaking through.

Eames had nearly finished the row when the door chimed and started a succession of wet customers coming through, all of them a bit stroppy and in a universal rush to get to-go cups and leave again. One or two filtered out to the tables and got proper trays and teapots, including the man who'd had chai last time Eames was there. The bustle disturbed Eames' peace until he managed to relegate it to the background. He forced himself to pay attention to nothing but his knitting until he was parking his needles at the end of the eye socket row, and drinking his last cold sip of tea.

There was still a queue, but Eames wanted another pot rather desperately, so there was nothing for it but to take his tray and join the line. He was just stepping behind the last person when the door swung open and a man came bustling through on his mobile phone and plowed right into him, sending the tray crashing to the floor.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry," said the man, and then, "No, not you, I've got to go. I'll call you back, look, just do it the way I proposed and stop arguing." He was wearing a suit even more posh than Arthur's and an overcoat to match, all of it in a style suited to a stuffy businessman twice his age.

"It's fine, you didn't see me," said Eames, heading up to the counter. "Arthur, can I get, oh, thank you," he said, taking the damp towel, dustpan, and brush that Arthur passed to him. "I'll pay for it, just ring me up when it's my go."

Arthur nodded and went back to taking the apparently complicated order of the man at the head of the line. Eames thought perhaps he ought to feel dismissed, but actually he felt more like Arthur trusted him to take care of things for him, which left a warm glow in his middle to rival that first, hot sip of tea.

The businessman was staring at Eames as he bent down to start cleaning up, sweeping the broken bits and wiping whatever had been spattered by the remnants of milk from the creamer. "I'll pay for it, don't be ridiculous," he said.

Eames glanced up. "It's no trouble, it was my order, my responsibility," he replied, gently wiping a bit of milk off the man's highly polished toe.

"Nonsense, you clearly can't," the man began, then stopped as Eames' glare fixed him in place. "Shouldn't, I mean, shouldn't have to, I ran into you."

Eames rolled his eyes, recognising the echo of his own younger self in the man's words: contemptuous of the lower classes but also afraid of them. He'd no doubt pegged Eames as practically homeless from the moment he spotted the first tattoo. "Do as you like," said Eames, finishing the clean-up and bringing everything back on the tray.

"In the back," said Arthur, nodding to the door. "Don't touch anything else."

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Eames, refraining from rolling his eyes until he'd vanished through the door into the mysterious back area. Which, actually, wasn't particularly mysterious -- it was a small, clean kitchen with racks of teaware drying, a huge sink, large covered trash, and small hamper. Eames threw away the broken china, rinsed out the towel and tossed it into the hamper, then washed his hands and the brush and dustpan, figuring they didn't need to be covered in milk any more than he did.

By the time he emerged, clean tray in one hand and dustpan in the other, Arthur had cleared out the line up to the posh git and was busily ignoring him while he assembled their orders.

"I said, I'll pay for the broken things," said the businessman, clearly very annoyed.

"And I said it won't be necessary," said Arthur, setting a last cup in the line-up on the counter. "Were you here for tea, Mr. Fischer?" he asked pointedly as he poured hot water into three to-go cups and two pots.

"Ah, yes, um, I've got the card here somewhere," said Fischer, fumbling and wrong-footed all over again.

Eames suspected this was not his usual state of being, and tried not to enjoy it too much as he tucked the cleaning supplies behind the counter and scarpered over to his chair to watch the entertainment.

"If it's the same as last time, I remember. Cup, pot, or tin?" asked Arthur shortly. He'd set a series of timers above the row of vessels, and the first one barely got out a strangled half-beep before he was pulling the basket of leaves out of the pot.

"Er, to go, please. Cup," said Fischer, watching Arthur's hands as he transferred the pot to a tray, the basket of leaves going on the saucer, and the cup by itself with no condiments. "Eames?"

"Me? Ta," said Eames, parking his knitting and getting up to take the tray.

"The leaves can be steeped twice more, so bring it back when the pot's empty," said Arthur, handing it over. "On the house." He actually handed Eames the card this time, and then turned back to where another timer was starting to beep.

"Thank you, darling," said Eames, the endearment slipping out. He was glad Arthur couldn't see how pink his cheeks were as he took the tray to his little table and poured himself a cup of the pale amber liquid.

Fischer looking faintly offended made it even better.

Arthur finished up with the remaining orders, calling out for people to pick them up, handing over the other teapot last before turning to Fischer. "That'll be two seventy-five," said Arthur, stepping up to the till. 

Another line had formed behind Fischer, but Arthur took his money and make his cuppa individually rather than batching the orders again, another subtle snub that made Eames' heart sing. Arthur was all annoyed business as he got Fischer out the door, barely softening as he took the next set of orders and started up another assembly line. Eames let himself drink the whole cup of tea, which subtly sweet and nutty and absolutely didn't need the sugar and milk that Arthur hadn't deigned to provide. Then he glanced at the card, which just said, "Iron Goddess of Mercy."

Eames went back to his knitting with a small smile on his face, which felt very much like a mercy after the week he'd had.

Eames finished four more rows and the pot, which he'd been unable to force himself to go slowly with this time, knowing there would be more. He brought it back up to the counter, and before he could say anything Arthur interrupted.

"Just leave it there, I'll bring it back over once it's ready," he said coolly, after glancing over to make sure it was intact, or so Eames assumed. "That'll be two fifty," he said to the woman in front of him.

"Thanks," mumbled Eames, making sure the tray was in a safe spot and then retreating to his corner to knit.

Eames let his mind wander ahead to the full pattern of the sweater, wondering if he could get away with asking its intended recipient about length of hem and sleeve without seeming like a pervert looking for a pick-up. The pattern had some possibility for publishing, especially now that the skull motif was coming together, but that wasn't why he'd started it nor why he'd finish it before the weather got any worse. Still, it would be pretty easy to grade the sizes since it was a simple tunic, though hell to chart the semi-random pattern of deconstructed stitching.

Eames was so far into his musing that he nearly dropped a needle when Arthur sat in the chair across for him, displacing his messenger bag to the floor. The pot was steaming gently on the tray between them, and a second cup had joined the first. "I always like the second steep best," said Arthur, pouring for them both.

Eames took a moment to get his knitting back on track, then nodded in acknowledgement. "I'm learning to trust your taste," he said, taking a sip of the tea. "Oh, that is lovely." It had developed some woodsy notes and a soft hint of bitterness that made the sweetness more pronounced.

"Good," said Arthur, though it was impossible to tell if he was talking about Eames or the tea. 

Eames looked around and found the tea shop full to the brim; the chair Arthur had commandeered for his break had been the only one free. Just Eames' luck, then, and nothing to do with his sparkling company. He took another long sip of tea and went back to his knitting, trying to squash his disappointment.

Arthur drank his cup in silence, taking it with him when he got up to help a customer. Eames considered whether his unwelcome crush on the proprietor was going to force him to give up the sanctuary he'd found here, and then decided to wait and see how uncomfortable things became. So far, Arthur had treated Eames with a brusque sort of kindness coupled with frightening competence. Eames could handle that, as long as he didn't fuck up enough to evoke the kind of cold disdain that Fischer had received.

Eames poured himself another cup of the Iron Goddess of Mercy, and set his mind back on the problem in his hands instead of the one in his pants. Despite the lacework, dropped stitches, and ribbing, it seemed the simpler of the two.

* * *

After that, Eames made time at least twice a week to knit in Specificity. He finished the sweater after a few weeks of steady work, making a point to save the second sleeve to complete where Arthur could see the finished product. It distracted him from the question of whether or not _Well-Heeled_ would ever make it into print, its production on hold while the publisher looked for another tech editor.

"Let me guess," said Arthur, as Eames stepped up to the counter. "Surprise you?" Eames never tried to order from a past favourite, though sometimes he'd needle Arthur -- like today.

"Maybe something a bit like that one from last Tuesday, with the ginger? But not quite that, less spicy and more warm," said Eames, grinning at him. Arthur was wearing dark pinstripes today in the best possible taste, trousers and waistcoat tailored close to his body and making Eames -- and probably everyone else -- want to see the body beneath just as closely.

Arthur huffed and rolled his eyes. "For that, seven pounds even," he said, holding out his hand.

Eames gave him a tenner. "Keep the change," he said, going over to 'his' table in the corner. He had no idea why it wasn't taken more often, as it afforded a lovely view of Arthur's work area and therefore Arthur, but he wasn't going to complain.

"You're awfully generous for a professional knitter," said Arthur dryly, making the change and plinking it into his tip bowl.

"You're not the only one who had a life before their current profession," said Eames with a shrug.

Arthur gave him a raised-eyebrow look of condescension so pure it was almost arousing, and Eames shook his head at himself as much as whatever Arthur was assuming his previous job might have been. Not that 'trust fund baby' was really a job, but Eames didn't feel like advertising it in front of the rest of Specificity's rather attentive clientele.

Arthur turned back to the queue and said, "How can I help you?" He was all politeness and competence with none of the teasing that Eames came in for, which gave Eames' poor heart another little pitter-pat to add to his pathetically growing list.

Eames got himself set up, nearly-finished sweater pulled out and laid across his legs in a blatant display. He'd actually woven in all the ends last night, so there really was just the last few inches of sleeve to finish, which he hoped to have done before closing. He let the sound of Arthur's and customers' voices blur into a background of white noise and got into his knitting, finishing up one more dropped-stitch section on the outside of the forearm before he got to the ribbing. He'd made the sleeves extra-long and put in a thumb hole so the kid could use the sleeves as handwarmers.

His needles worked while his mind wandered, thinking about whether he ought to do gloves or more socks for his next project. He was so deep into his plans to re-knit the samples for his entire book that he started when a tray was set next to him, the card, as usual, slipped on after.

"Don't say I never gave you anything," said Arthur, turning to go.

Eames gaped at the small plate next to his cup and saucer, containing three golden-buttery shortbread biscuits. "Cheers, then?" he said uncertainly. He glanced around, but nothing had changed -- no one else had biscuits, there was no display of them or any hint one could order them, just the three innocuous treats sitting on his tray. Arthur stalked off without answering. The trousers did amazing things to his arse, and Eames had to shift in his seat to rearrange himself in his own, much less closely-cut trousers.

Eames finished his row and parked his needles, then poured himself a fragrant cup of tea that smelled of lush fruit and a hint of spice, mainly ginger and, he thought, cardamom. His palate was already becoming more discerning since he forced himself to guess with every cup, and wanted to improve his scores. One creamy, sweet sip sent pure joy to his toes with the balance of flavours, peach or apricot with subtle spice, supported by a rich, dark tea. It's possible he made an obscene sound, but he didn't much care despite the look the Fischer prat was giving him from the line.

Eames was just taking his first bite of exquisite shortbread when Fischer stepped up to the counter and said, "I'll have what he's having." He gestured to Eames imperiously. "To go, though."

"That'll be three pounds twenty, then," said Arthur. "I'll have your cup ready in a few minutes."

"What about the biscuits?" said Fischer, clearly a challenge.

"Brought them from home," said Eames brightly. "Arthur lent me a plate for them so I wouldn't get crumbs everywhere, because he's excellent at making practicality look like kindness."

Arthur shot him an amused look, but nodded. "Sorry," he said, making no effort to sound sincere.

Fischer made a face, but he paid anyway, sitting across from Eames to wait for his drink. "Did he ever let you pay for the dishes?" he asked darkly.

"Nope," said Eames. "He does continue to tolerate my inability to specify my orders, so I'm not willing to risk his wrath bringing it up again." He decided eating the shortbread while Fischer was right there would be rubbing it in a bit too much, so he took one more sip of his exquisite tea and went back to his knitting.

"I've never seen a man knit before," said Fischer, staring at the sweater as though Eames was performing some sort of sleight of hand.

Eames shrugged. "I knit, I bake, I'm quite the little domestic goddess," he replied, putting just a little swish into his voice.

"I'm sure any man would be lucky to have you," said Arthur dryly, handing over Fischer's cup. "Enjoy your tea," he added to Fischer, actually sounding less sincere than earlier, which Eames hadn't thought was possible.

Fischer's eyes narrowed, but he took it with a quiet thanks. Arthur stepped back so that Fischer could stand, and then slid into the spot he'd vacated and asked, "Well?"

"Exquisite," said Eames. "Unless you mean the sweater, in which case I hope to finish it this afternoon." He gestured over it in all its Gothic glory, the skull a subtle design over the right hip, the dropped rows giving it a decaying, post-apocalyptic feel while still being sturdy enough not to unravel since they were deliberate.

Arthur let out a small, rare smile. "Not quite Yohji Yamamoto after all, but it's very well-made." He reached out, pausing before his fingers could touch the hem. "May I?"

"Feel free, I'll have to wash and block it before I give it to him, anyway," said Eames, urging Arthur to close the gap and feel the delightfulness that was this amazing yarn.

Arthur made a soft sound of surprised pleasure as he fingered the ribbed edge of the sweater. He moved his hand up to pet over one of the deconstructed sections, where strands of yarn ran horizontally across the space, holding the sweater together while appearing to be falling apart. "Lucky friend."

"I didn't think this was quite your style," said Eames, beaming like a loon. "I'd pictured you more as the argyle sweater vest type."

"I do have some imagination," said Arthur, completely failing to bristle even though he gave it a halfhearted try. He was still petting the sweater and coming a little too close to petting parts of Eames that required informed consent, so Eames politely shifted away, pushing the fabric into Arthur's hand to disguise the motion.

"I've had your creations," said Eames. "I never doubted it for a moment."

Arthur ignored him and added, "But I do like argyle."

Eames beams at him. "This yarn is a silk wool blend, it would fit right in with your posh suits."

"Too bad the style isn't quite suited," said Arthur. He pulled his hand away with reluctance and stood. "It might be fun to go clubbing in, though."

Eames grins at him. "Nah, you'd boil. This will be a cosy thing despite the holes, you'd want one in a lighter yarn that's more hole than sweater."

"Maybe next time," said Arthur with a smirk. He went back up to the counter just as a soft beeping registered to Eames' ears. There was a pot of someone's tea just finished steeping, and Eames took a moment to watch Arthur's economical movements as he pulled out the basket of leaves and set up the tray.

Eames finished his whole first biscuit and cup of tea before he went back to the sweater, thoughts of socks given over to sweaters he could make for Arthur. 

Eames had seen some socks with bats worked in the argyle once, that could be amazing in black, white, grey, and just a hint of pumpkin orange. Perhaps that could be his next book, sweaters for goths. He imagined a clubbing version of the deconstructed sweater, much more reminiscent of the Yamamoto creation but with skulls worked into the fabric for that perfect clubbing attitude. He even paused his knitting to make some notes in on his phone, ideas for a shawl done like a spider's web, arm warmers covered in a subtle pattern of belladonna flowers, that bat argyle done as a sweater vest and matching socks.

Eames poured another cuppa and ate another biscuit, feeling completely spoiled and decadent, then went determinedly back to the sweater, not wanting to disappoint Arthur's obvious desire to see the finished product. He almost wished he didn't already have a recipient in mind, but honestly what was a charitable endeavour for the kid in the park would have a lot more meaning for someone he knew, and might be overstepping. Especially considering the yarn was nearly twenty pounds a skein and he was just about to finish the eighth skein. He had one left, which was destined to become matching accessories, and had been glad of the overage.

The cuff was coming along well, so Eames got to the end of a row and poured himself another cuppa, once again thinking of tea cosies. That was one of the things he rather loved about coming here -- he was constantly thinking of new projects, new ideas, his fingers itching to create. With the sock book drama, Eames had nearly lost his will to live, let alone design, but Arthur and his amazing tea shop had pulled him back from the brink.

Eames finished the tea and biscuits before the sweater, but he couldn't bring himself to mind the excuse for another pot. He got up and stretched, shaking out his hands, then gathered up his tray and sauntered up to the counter, pleased to have caught Arthur at a slow moment. "Nearly there, but I'll need a bit more fuel to get over the finish line," said Eames, sliding the tray across to him.

"Five pounds fifty," said Arthur, already ringing it up on the register.

Eames grinned, leaning in as he handed Arthur the cash. "The shortbread was amazing," he said, voice low and conspiratorial. "Thank you for that."

"Don't get used to it," said Arthur, but there was a quirk of a smile in one corner of his mouth, and his eyes were dancing.

Eames chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said. He dropped a couple of pound coins into the tip bowl just to hear the sound and returned to his knitting. 

While Eames' hands worked, his mind kept wandering back to Arthur's unexpected fondness for the sweater that didn't seem at all his style. Eames thought perhaps he should test and see if Arthur really did like it, or just liked watching it come into existence, row after row turning string to fabric before his very eyes.

When Arthur brought over the tray with two cups again, Eames wasn't even startled this time, and he smiled a welcome and nodded to the chair.

Arthur sat, passing over the card before pouring for both of them, making up Eames' cup the way he liked it.

"What, exactly, do you like about this sweater?" asked Eames. Well, blurted, really, not his finest moment, but forgivable in the face of Arthur having noticed and remembered how he took his tea.

"What do you mean?" asked Arthur, making his own cup nearly the same way, but with more milk than Eames generally took.

Eames paused for a sip of the tea, eyes fluttering closed at the rich taste of summer fruit that hit his mouth, followed up with the gentlest hint of cool mint and braced by a dark black tea. "I have no idea, I've forgotten everything but how amazing this tea is," said Eames, taking another sip.

"I like the softness, and the color, and the lines of it are nice," said Arthur, looking amused. "The thing you're doing with the, um, sweater paws is really neat."

Eames blinked at Arthur's slip into vernacular. "So not really the post-apocalyptic goth thing, but the comfort of it?"

"I really do like that black, though, the variations in colour." Arthur paused, shrugged, then took a sip of tea himself. "But you're right, I could do without the big holes."

"And the lacework?" asked Eames, showing off the skull again.

Arthur nodded. "That's pretty cool, actually," he said, giving Eames a lopsided grin. "Though it wouldn't have to be a skull, I just like how the pattern is part of the, um, the weave I guess?"

"Like your tie," said Eames. "From the first day, it had this lovely brocade."

"Oh, yeah," said Arthur. "Yes, like that. I like pattern, actually, I just like it subtle."

"Except you also like argyle," said Eames, taking another sip of tea and letting his mind wander.

"Well, yeah, but that's different," said Arthur with a shrug. "Argyle's a classic."

"Too true," agreed Eames. He got out his phone and made a few more notes, glancing up at Arthur to gauge his size as well. He designed the slow way, by knitting things and ripping them out and re-knitting them until he liked what he had, and then writing it all down for someone else to try. A lot of his samples ended up in the hands of the homeless, at least after the photoshoots, and he rather thought he could work up a few things to put in the hands of his favourite tea shop proprietor instead.

They sat in pleasant silence while Eames made his notes and they both finished their first cups of tea. Eames poured himself a second, offering Arthur a top-up, but Yusuf came in and Arthur took himself and his cup back up to the counter. Eames went back to his knitting feeling a bit like he was taming some sort of skittish wildlife, a creature that wanted to be friends but wasn't certain that it was advisable.

"Hah, triumph!" said Eames a while later, binding off the last stitch. He found the tapestry needle he'd tucked in a safe spot and cut the yarn, preparing to weave in the last end and completely ignoring the way everyone was staring at him. Finishing an entire sweater with no pattern deserved some celebration.

"Ooh, let me see?" asked Yusuf, coming over with his teacup in hand. "I've been dying to ask, to be honest."

Eames grinned and nodded. "Go on, just let me finish this last bit," he said, nodding to the chair across from him that he thought of as Arthur's. "I'm tempted to ask Arthur to model it for us, but he might poison my tea."

"Arthur would never do that to the tea," said Yusuf, with an answering grin. "You're Eames, right?"

"And you're Yusuf, of the proper bloody chai," said Eames. He got the last bit of yarn woven in and tucked the needle back away, then offered Yusuf his hand for shaking. "Nice to finally meet you."

"Arthur indulges us both," said Yusuf, shaking with a warm, soft grip. He rubbed his hands together and then held them out, fingers wiggling. "I'm dying to touch this amazing yarn."

"He'll ruin you for normal textiles," said Arthur. He'd had another small rush and was doing his assembly line method of tea-making, hot water poured and timers set.

"It's only fair," said Eames, handing it over with a grin. "You've ruined me for all other tea."

"He's ruined us all," agreed Yusuf cheerfully. He carefully handled the sweater, putting a hand under the skull to admire the detail and then giving up all pretence and just fondling it. "Arthur is not wrong, wow, can you be my personal live-in garment boy?"

"Sorry," said Eames with a grin, "my heart belongs to Arthur."

Yusuf sighed and handed the sweater back. "That's fair, I suppose. But seriously, if you start taking commissions, I'm second in line after Arthur."

"I never said," began Arthur indignantly.

"You didn't have to," interrupted Yusuf. "Finish up and come see this, so I don't have to feel guilty about wanting another pot of chai in a minute."

"Yusuf, we're closing in half an hour," said Arthur, looking put-upon. All but one of the orders under his graceful hands were in to-go cups, and the pot was for yet another regular, a Japanese man who came in and got very expensive green tea nearly every day.

"I'll drink fast, I've got to be in the lab overnight to baby this experiment," said Yusuf, looking piteous. "Please?"

Arthur sighed. "Yes, all right, fine, but I get to see the sweater first."

Eames did not point out that Arthur had already seen most of the sweater not two hours ago. Instead, he busied himself finishing the last of his own pot and wondering if Arthur would believe he had a knitting emergency that would require a late night of his own.

"You," said Arthur, passing him with Saito's tray, "are getting a to-go cup."

"You wound me, Arthur," said Eames, but he was still grinning.

Yusuf wisely vacated the seat, handing the sweater off to Arthur as he returned empty-handed. "I really can't have this?" said Arthur, sitting with it cradled in both hands. "I feel like a cat, I just want to rub my face on it to claim it as mine."

Eames laughed delightedly. "I promise, if I make something else in this yarn, it'll have your name on it one way or the other."

"Now you're just being a tease," called Yusuf, who appeared to be making sure he'd drained every drop of chai from his current pot.

"You don't bring me tea," Eames called back. He turned back to Arthur and gave him a smug once-over. "Arthur is my new muse."

Arthur sighed and handed the sweater over. "I could probably live with that," he said, standing up and stretching, arms overhead and body one long, lean line.

In order to avoid babbling like a lovestruck teenager, Eames stayed very quiet, eyes following Arthur behind the counter where he began the familiar process of making Yusuf's chai. After he got the mixture on the heat, he snagged one of his mixing cups and began to make a smaller measure of tea for Eames than his usual. Eames loved watching him move among the drawers, reaching up from the ladder and bending down toward the floor, his movements economical without being rigid.

Eames allowed himself a good stare before he began to pack the sweater away, pulling out his back-up project. It was socks, which would probably make him grumpy all over again, but sitting there with nothing at all in his hands would be far worse, so he tried to be Zen about it. He'd already turned the heel in this one, anyway, and was working on the TARDIS pattern in the top section. This one wasn't his design, though he'd put his own heel on as it was far superior to everyone else's way of doing them, and he was making them as a gift for his editor. The good one, Dom, who was mad for all things Whovian and legitimately loved his hand-knit socks.

His phone chimed with a text, distracting him from both his sock and Arthur's progress on his tea. "Have found new tech editor. When/where can you meet? Please say you will."

Eames huffed, but he wrote back in the affirmative. "Tomorrow, Specificity tea shop, 2pm. No maligning of my heels will be tolerated."

Eames finished his row before the reply came back. "Check on all counts. Her name's Ariadne. Be nice."

"I'm always nice," Eames replied. He tucked his phone and socks both away, watching as Arthur delivered Yusuf's pot and turned toward Eames with a to-go cup in hand.

"You didn't have to stop," said Arthur, setting the cup down and offering him the card.

Eames dutifully pocketed it. "I'm on the outs with socks right now, but hopefully tomorrow all will be forgiven."

Arthur raised an eyebrow at that. "I've never owned hand-knit socks," he said by way of reply, then turned and went back to cleaning up his work area.

Eames grinned hugely. "I can fix that," he said. Dom had already had her pick of his samples from the book at his insistence, and the pairs she'd returned had been languishing in his flat waiting to be donated. He'd kept two for himself, one of which he'd nearly had to fight her for, but he rather thought Arthur would enjoy at least one of the remaining lot.

"I'm not sure Doctor Who socks are my thing," said Arthur dubiously.

Eames chuckled. "I happen to have a few pairs going spare," he said. "Nothing that's been worn except for five minutes by a model, mind."

"A sock model," said Arthur pointedly.

"A knitwear model," corrected Eames. "But yes, in this case, socks. Which I will wash and dry for you and write up care instructions for."

He could see Arthur's desire to know why Eames had sock models in his life warring with his usual reticence.

Yusuf solved the impasse by saying, "You know, if you google 'Eames' and 'knitting' together, you find all sorts of interesting things."

"Not, however, my first name," said Eames smugly. He used his initials on his books and was very insistent on being called Eames otherwise.

"Not that, no, which was quite vexing," said Yusuf. He'd already poured himself a cuppa and was attempting to inhale it between comments.

Eames took a cautious sip of his own tea and looked smug, and then ecstatic when the flavours registered. Arthur had left off the fruit entirely for this last cup and gone full floral with a melange of herbs blending well with the tea. It wasn't his usual strong black tea, either, but something subtler with a nutty sweetness that was different than the usual malty notes. "Entirely amazing," he said.

Arthur was looking down at his phone. "You publish knitting books? Who buys those?"

"Knitters, obviously," said Eames with a chuckle. "It's a niche market, much like this shop."

Arthur's only response was a dubious, "Hm," before he grabbed a cloth and started cleaning the unoccupied tables.

Eames packed up as slowly as he could get away with, but by five minutes to closing he had no more reason not to pick up his bag and cup and go. Yusuf was still downing his chai like a drunk on a bender, and Saito had finished his own pot and left. "Sorry to knit and run, but I'll see you tomorrow. I'm meeting a new tech editor here."

"How is that possibly a real thing?" asked Arthur, shaking his head. "You'd better not be using me for illicit rendezvous."

"I'm touched you care, Arthur," said Eames with a laugh. "Knitting has technical issues just like anything else."

"Is she cute?" asked Yusuf, looking possibly a bit too wide-eyed now.

"I haven't met her yet, have I? I'm sure you'll see tomorrow, provided you don't overdose on caffeine first."

"Will you care if she's cute?" asked Arthur dryly.

Eames smirked. "Of course not, darling. My heart belongs to you now."

He pushed out into the cold London evening and headed home.

* * *

Eames arrived early the next day, wanting to be settled at his table before the new girl arrived. There wasn't a line, so he strode right up to the counter with a grin.

"You," said Arthur, looking vexed, "have fans."

Eames blinked, feeling his cheeks heat. "I suppose I do?" he ventured. It was rather flattering, really, that Arthur had gone that deeply into his google results. "Is that bad?"

"They have a nickname for you," said Arthur. "They call themselves BAE's Baes. It's disturbing."

Eames laughed, though he could feel his face had to be beet red by now. "I'm sorry you're not my only admirer?" he said, grinning and blushing like an idiot. "Do I still get tea?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "This woman coming today, she's not one of them, is she?"

"Not that I'm aware of," said Eames, brows knitting. "I do hope not, though it would mean she won't argue about my heels."

The bell jingled and Yusuf called out cheerily, "Hullo, have I missed her?"

"No," said Arthur and Eames in unison.

Eames sighed. "Arthur has apparently found my tumblr fandom."

"Oh, dear," said Yusuf. "Has he seen the photos?"

For the first time since Eames walked in, Arthur looked more interested than annoyed. "What photos?"

"I used to be a bit of a tart," said Eames with a grin. "There are photos of me in nothing but strategically placed knitwear."

"And tattoos," pointed out Yusuf. "That one showing off your arse is particularly fetching, if only I swung that way."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You can have tea if you find me the photos," he said, shoving his phone at Eames. "I require something to rid my eyes of that horrible..."

"Oh, you found the website," said Eames pityingly. "With the banner that sparkles disturbingly."

"That thing is a portal to some hell dimension," agreed Yusuf. "Here, I've got them bookmarked, hold on." He pulled out his tablet and began poking at it.

"Hold on, why did you bookmark my old nudie pictures?" said Eames, taking Arthur's phone and putting himself in the contacts quite shamelessly while Yusuf found the photos.

"Here you go," said Yusuf, handing the tablet over to Arthur. He turned to Eames. "This is exactly why. I need my chai, and I need Arthur to keep liking me enough to make it."

"Ten for the both of you, Eames pays," said Arthur without looking up, flipping through the photos with the same disgruntled expression on his face. "Go sit, I'll give your tablet back after I email some of these to myself."

"Feel free, ta," replied Yusuf, giving Eames a grin.

Eames texted himself from Arthur's phone and then laid it gently on top of a tenner, slipping two pound coins quietly into the bowl. He and Yusuf retreated to their respective tables without another word. Eames got out his knitting; he'd decided to redo one of his book samples using his own actual pattern. He'd also wanted a quick project after the sweater, which he'd washed and blocked last night. He'd make a beanie and maybe socks from the extra yarn to go with the sweater, but for now it was drying in his flat.

Eames got back into the sock easily enough, the instructions pulled up on his phone so he wouldn't deviate from what he'd written. He'd cast it on earlier in a fit of nerves, because he really didn't want this stupid sock book to kill his career. He liked designing knitting patterns, even if it didn't exactly support his lifestyle. It paid for itself, even if he threw in his pricey new tea habit.

Arthur set down the tea tray with just enough force to startle Eames, and then sat himself in the empty chair and poured for them both. "Why are there naked photos of you on the internet?"

Eames laughed. "For you to enjoy, dear Arthur," he replied flirtatiously. He took his cup and tried the tea, which was an amazing mix of herbs and tea that brought to mind dew-covered meadows and deep pine forests, sharp yet soothing on the palate.

Arthur huffed, but he was finally smiling again. "Yusuf was right, that one of your butt was the best one."

Eames laughed. "This tea is making me feel well-rewarded for being an idiot when I was younger, ta." He toasted Arthur and sipped again, letting out a soft sound of pure satisfaction.

Arthur handed him the card, which was densely covered in writing. The ingredients ranged from herbs like sage and thyme to some things like pine needles that he wasn't entirely sure were edible. Eames tucked it away and grinned, taking another sip.

Arthur looked satisfied and nodded. "You continue to have good taste in tea, if not selfies," he said, standing. "Don't share it."

Eames' grin widened. "I wouldn't dream of it," he replied, taking another big sip. 

Once Arthur had gone back to the counter, Yusuf came over, cup of his own tea in hand. "So," he said, sitting.

"So?" said Eames.

"I think we should exchange numbers," said Yusuf. "Just in case."

"In case of what, if you're straight?" asked Eames with a laugh, pulling out his phone.

Yusuf shrugged. "I don't want to miss any important developments," he said with a grin. He put himself in Eames' phone as Yusuf Tilki, and then sent himself a text, just as Eames had done with Arthur's phone, though Yusuf apparently also wanted to share email. "So, what name should I put you under?"

Eames rolled his eyes. "Just Eames," he replied dryly. "Like Cher or Madonna, I only need the one." He texted back with his email address, then pulled the knitting pattern back up.

Yusuf grinned. "I didn't think that would work," he said. He finished off his mug of chai and stood. "Better drink that before the girl gets here."

"Woman," said Eames, sipping his exquisite tea again. "They like it when you call them that."

"I thought you didn't like women," said Arthur sharply.

"I don't shag women," corrected Eames. "That doesn't mean I don't like them. I'm a professional knitting pattern designer, women are pretty much my entire livelihood."

"And girls," said Yusuf. He took himself and his empty cup back to his own table with a smirk.

Eames rolled his eyes and finished off his first cup of tea, preparing a second before he got back to his sock. He'd raided his stash for a blend of merino, cashmere, and nylon, the hand-dyed grey knitting up like storm clouds, exquisitely soft to the touch and just barely variegated. The pattern itself would have a subtle texture of clouds worked into it, and while his hands worked, Eames thought about the rainy day that he'd showed up during Arthur's lunch hour.

The evergreen scent of the tea kept catching him off guard, making him think of cologne and how Arthur's neck might smell first thing out of the shower. Eames had no idea of it was intentional, or really if they were even both flirting, but he allowed himself to wonder what scents Arthur chose to wear and if Eames would ever get close enough to find out. 

Before Eames could get too far down that rabbit hole, the door opened and admitted a young woman in jeans and a leather jacket with a hand-knit shawl worn like scarf around her neck in a tangle of fine lacework. She came straight over and said, "You must be Eames."

"And you're the tech editor, Ariadne, isn't it?" said Eames. He set his knitting aside and stood, offering her his hand to shake.

Ariadne shook, her hand small and cool in his. "You've already got a pot of tea?" she asked, setting her big bag on the chair.

"Ah, no, this one's about gone, actually," said Eames apologetically. He demonstrated by pouring the last trickles out into his cup. "I'll get another from Arthur, do you have any preferences?"

"Oh, um, does he have Lady Grey?" she asked, her tone clearly indicating she doubted such a luxury could be had.

"He makes his own mixes, but I'm sure he can do up an approximation," said Eames. He added a bit more milk and sugar to his current cup and set it aside so he could take the tray up and put in their order.

"Four pounds twenty-five," said Arthur, accepting the tray. "I'll give you a fresh cup, I don't think they'll be compatible."

Eames grinned and handed over the cash. "I really loved this pot," he said, laying his hand against the china gently. "I'm happy to be surprised like this again in the future."

"We'll see," said Arthur dryly. "I'll bring your tea over, go away."

Eames grinned. "Charming as always," he teased, but did as he was bade and sat to finish the last of his glorious cuppa. He knew if he actually brought the card back and asked for it specifically, he'd get it again, but that wasn't the point. The point was to have Arthur keep showing him things he'd never have known to ask for and be constantly in a state of pleasant surprise whenever he was here.

"He's a bit grumpy, isn't he?" asked Ariadne, in what Eames suspected she thought was a discreet tone.

Eames shrugged. "Wait until you taste the tea, you'll understand the appeal then."

"Oh, I understand it," she said, looking over at Arthur. "He's not my type, but I'm not blind."

Eames glanced over to see Arthur bending down to get something out of a lower drawer, today's pinstripes beautifully curving over his delightful derriere. "Well, yes, there's also that. Anyway, we're meant to be talking about sock patterns."

"Is that Cloud City you're doing now?" she asked, nodding to the sock. 

Eames had just gotten into the start of the cloud pattern. "Yeah, I thought this yarn would be nice with it," he said, passing over the swatch.

"I bet Dom would love these," said Ariadne. "She was pretty put out you claimed the blue pair."

Eames laughed. "These are also spoken for," he replied a bit wickedly. "Anyway, as you've obviously looked at the patterns, what do you think?"

Arthur chose that moment to arrive with their tea tray, plunking it down and handing Eames the white card, then claiming his now-empty cup. "I like grey," Arthur said, glancing at the socks.

Eames grinned. "I know you do," he replied, reclaiming his knitting. "These have a cloud pattern in them."

"Like the skull," said Arthur, nodding. "Good." He turned and left, but Eames had a definite feeling that he was now officially out of the doghouse despite bringing a strange woman into Arthur's shop.

"I see," said Ariadne. "Well, I won't tell her you're working on them."

Eames tucked the knitting away in his project bag, this one decorated with a mosaic of colourful yarn balls. "I like you already," he said. He picked up the teapot and poured for them both, taking a little sip of his before adding a bit of the honey and milk Arthur had provided. "Oh, this is lovely."

Ariadne sniffed her cup dubiously before taking a sip. "Oh, wow. Okay, this beats Lady Grey all to hell."

Eames toasted her with his cup and took another sip, settling back into his chair. "Arthur knows what he's about."

"As do you, that new heel technique is amazing," said Ariadne, after they'd both taken a moment to enjoy their tea. "I can see why Mal hates it. She's always been an advocate of heel flaps, but I tried it out and I'm already in love."

Eames grinned hugely. "I just know we're going to be great friends."

She laughed and pulled out, not notes as he'd been expecting, but a pair of socks, one done, one on the needles. He recognised the pattern as his own entrelac design, with the soles reversed in the optional style for tender feet. "So, there's a few tech things in the way this design in particular meshes with the princess soles, but that was all easy stuff to fix once I figured it out."

"Do tell, I never think to knit them that way," said Eames. And then, because he couldn't keep his big mouth shut, "Arthur, do you have delicate, tender feet?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Eames," came the reply.

Eames buried his smirk in his teacup. "Show me these changes you've made," he said, instead of bothering Arthur more. There was a line forming, and Eames didn't want to get on anyone's bad side.

They drank the whole pot while they discussed his book, and by the end of it Eames was certain that she was the right choice for him. She had a fresh way of looking at things, and a willingness to try something out before passing judgement. He texted Dom to tell her that he approved of Ariadne, and then got up to get a third pot of tea while she packed up to head out.

"Three in one day?" said Arthur, sounding amused.

"I had to share the middle one, doesn't count," said Eames with a grin. "I fancy something floral after all that pine and citrus."

Arthur's mouth quirked up in a little half-smile. "Does that mean the A is for Algernon?" he asked.

Eames rolled his eyes. "No, it does not," he replied. "How much?"

"Hm." Arthur paused, thinking, and then nodded. "Eight pounds seventy."

Eames passed over a tenner without comment, since in his experience the higher-priced pots contained the best teas and were always worth paying for. His change went into the bowl, and he took himself back to his seat before Arthur could shoo him away. He and Ariadne shared pleasant goodbyes, and then he sat and got back to work on Arthur's socks.

"All right," said Arthur a few minutes later, setting the tray down and pouring for them both. "What's this about my feet?" He was perched in the second chair as though Ariadne might have contaminated it.

Eames handed him the ball of yarn. "What do you think of that?"

Arthur fondled it a moment, then slid his fingers along the trailing strand and felt the knitting itself. "It's like clouds."

"In more than one sense, yes," said Eames, parking his needles and letting Arthur hold it. "Some people find it uncomfortable to stand on hand knit socks all day, so there's a technique to knit the soles the wrong way round to make them a bit more comfortable."

Arthur was prodding at the sock in fascination, so Eames took a moment to sip his tea. Rather than the lavender or rose he was expecting, a whole bouquet of delicate flowers filled his nose and mouth, sweet and creamy and delicate. The tea was quite light and floral all by itself, but it had been buoyed and accompanied by flowers Eames hadn't even been certain one could eat. "Arthur," he breathed, staring at him. "That's twice today you've amazed me."

Arthur smirked and handed the knitting back, though he kept custody of the yarn ball. "I don't have delicate feet."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Eames. He took another long inhale of the scented steam coming off his cup, and then sighed softly before sipping the glorious ambrosia. Arthur had used honey again, and it gave him an image of sunlit meadows patrolled by lazy bees. Eames forced himself to set down the cup and start knitting, the yarn stretched in a gentle arc between himself and Arthur.

They actually got a good five minutes of comfortable quiet, with Eames knitting and Arthur sipping tea with one hand and cradling the ball of yarn in his lap with the other. Eames paused to sip his own tea, not wanting to let a drop of it go cold, but he was intent on making good progress on these socks now. He'd become quite fast while working on the book, so he had high hopes for finishing the pair in a few long tea-and-knitting sessions apiece.

The chiming of the bell over the door interrupted their moment, and Eames actually sighed when Arthur handed back the ball of yarn, still warm from his body heat. "Thanks again for this," he said, nodding to the teapot.

"It's a favourite of mine," said Arthur, and then he took himself and his cup away and left Eames to ponder the idea of courtship, or flirting, or whatever it was they were doing.

Eames finished his cup and made himself knit a full round before he poured another, ignoring whatever customers had taken Arthur away from him. The white card was sitting on the tray, but Eames resisted it for as long as he could manage his curiosity. He waited until he poured the last cup from the pot, and then stared at the flower-names as he sipped the tea. There were violets and red clover blossoms, dandelion flowers and daylilies and woodruff. There were other things listed by their scientific names that Eames had no idea what they were, and he tucked the card away feeling like he'd been given a gift.

Then Eames drank the cup of tea one sip at a time, hands wrapped around it, giving it his full attention for as long as it lasted.

When the final drop was gone, Eames sighed and checked the time -- half an hour until closing, time for a bit more knitting before Arthur chucked them all out. He straightened up his things so all that was left out was his phone and the knitting, and took one rather longing look at Arthur -- slammed with a pre-closing rush of to-go orders -- before getting to work.

Eames got so into his knitting that he barely noticed when a warm hand brushed over his shoulders, only looking up when the tea tray was lifted from the table. "Oh, thank you. Have I overstayed?" he asked, looking around the empty shop.

"Finish that row or whatever," said Arthur, looking amused. "They really do look like clouds."

"The pattern's called Cloud City," said Eames with a grin. "It's from the book Ariadne's tech editing."

Arthur shook his head, but a smile quirked up the side of his mouth. "That still sounds ridiculous, but I guess it makes sense to have someone check your instructions." He wiped the table, letting Eames rescue his phone, and then took everything back behind the counter to start cleaning up there.

"Thank you for your approval," said Eames, only a little sarcastically. "And for not poisoning us, I suppose."

"I don't keep the poisons up front, I'd have had to go in the back and it just wasn't worth the effort," Arthur shot back.

Eames smirked and went back to his knitting. "Both of today's teas were amazing, by the way," he said, eyes flicking from his hands to Arthur.

"Both?" said Arthur archly.

Eames' smirk widened. "The middle one hardly counts, she ordered that."

Arthur's face softened into a real smile, lopsided though it was. "I suppose not," he said.

Eames grinned and got to the end of his row, parking everything and fixing his place in his mind before tucking it all away. When he looked back, Arthur had paused just to watch him, and Eames though that perhaps this feeling of longing was mutual after all. He was willing to let it build, though, one stitch at a time, one cup and one moment, until they found out what the shape of this thing was that they were creating between them.

"Ready?" asked Arthur, coming out from behind the counter again.

Eames joined him by the locked door. "Thank you again for letting me stay after hours."

Arthur smirked. "One of these days, I'll get to keep whatever you're knitting." He unlocked the door and held it open.

Eames' face lit up. "One of these days," he agreed, resisting the urge to kiss Arthur's cheek or mouth or any other part Arthur might offer up for kissing. "Cheers," he said instead, slipping out into the cold night.

* * *

Eames spent the evening watching telly and knitting, staying up late enough to get the heel turned and be well on his way to finishing tomorrow. As a result, he was dragging terribly by the time he made it in to Specificity, after indulging himself in a wonderfully heart-stopping full English on the way.

"You look terrible," said Arthur. "You're not getting sick, are you?"

"Netflix binge," said Eames, yawning hugely. "You're ruined me for everyone else's tea, so I've only barely had caffeine."

Arthur actually laughed, looking very pleased with himself. "I'll make you a tin of something for home, but it'll cost you."

"At this point I'd offer sexual favours as long as it got me tea, darling." Eames heard the words tumble out of his mouth with a mix of horror and pride to have actually broached the subject.

Arthur snorted. "If I ever let you offer me sexual favours, it won't be for tea, Mr. Eames. Do you have cash for a £50 tin of tea, or will I get to see your first name on your card?"

Eames pulled out the card and handed it over. "I'm afraid neither," he said, feeling a bit smug for having convinced the bank to issue the card to B A Eames. "Best put the first pot on there, too, I might need three again."

Arthur nodded and rang him up, handing back the card. "You're lucky I didn't make you show me ID for that."

"Perhaps someday I'll whisper it to you in post-coital bliss," said Eames, dropping some coins into the tip bowl before putting his wallet away. 

"Go sit down before you fall down," replied Arthur, already turning toward his drawers.

Eames settled himself in, taking off his jacket to reveal today's secret weapon, a sweater he'd made himself in hand-spun English wool. It was chunky and thick in rich fall colours of gold, orange, and a hint of red. The knit was simple and loose, showcasing the yarn rather than the knitter, and he had it on good authority that it softened his muscular frame considerably, making him look like a huggable autumn bear. He pushed up the sleeves and took a deep breath, trying to summon up the energy to work on the sock.

Yusuf chose that moment to sit with him, a grin on his face. "That took things up a notch. I quite approve."

Eames couldn't help but laugh. "I swear, my mouth did not have my brain's approval for that. I feel lucky he didn't slap me, to be honest."

"There's still time," said Arthur, up on his ladder to get at the expensive upper tiers of ingredients.

Eames' laughter became slightly hysterical at that. He laid his head down on his folded arms for a moment and tried to gather his thoughts. "I'll endeavour not to say anything else inappropriate for the duration, then," he said eventually, sounding a bit miserable even to himself.

"Don't be boring," said Arthur.

Eames' face warmed. "If you say so, darling."

"You call me that more when you're tired, perhaps I should give you decaf," said Arthur. He was still doing his magic, assembling ingredients in both a tin and a cup, and Eames marvelled that he could keep track of them both and the conversation as well.

"Oh, Arthur, I'll use any pet names you like," said Eames, sitting up enough to watch.

Yusuf laughed. "Does this mean you two will finally go out on a date? I knew I should've started a betting pool."

"Saito doesn't care enough to bet on my love life," said Eames, "and Fisher would only glare at us both for getting special treatment."

"On the contrary," said Saito, entering the shop at that inopportune moment, "I care far too much to risk Arthur's displeasure by wagering on your relationship."

"How did you know I meant Arthur?" Eames asked him, perhaps unwisely.

Yusuf retreated to refill his cup and, Eames suspected, watch from a safe distance.

"Please, Mr. Eames," said Saito, in a tone that suggested it was as stupid a question as it had sounded the moment it left his lips. He walked up to the counter and put his exact change down, plus a couple of coins into the bowl, and said, "As you have time, Arthur."

"As soon as I finish this for Eames," said Arthur, still climbing around on his ladder.

Eames had never seen Arthur take so long on anything before, and he was starting to feel like the slow one here, having not seen before what was obvious to everyone else. Eames laid his head back down on his arms and wondered if he was too pathetic at the moment to successfully ask Arthur out, or if he'd be even more of an idiot waiting another day. He contemplated what sort of date could manage to impress someone with such obvious taste and culture, given that Eames mostly hung out at yarn shops and the local pub, at least now that he'd quit gambling.

Eames reached into his pocket and fingered the chip that reminded him how miserable he'd been back then, surrounded by everything a man was supposed to want and nothing that made him feel anything but hollow inside. He sat up and took a deep breath, then got out his knitting, taking his time looking it over, making sure that he knew his place before he added to it, stitch by stitch. This was something he was good at that was worth doing, just like asking out Arthur was a risk worth taking, even if the tin of tea was the last souvenir he ended up with of his time here in the shop.

Arthur set the tray down so gently that it barely intruded on Eames' concentration, two white cards and a tin lined up next to it with precise fingers. Eames looked up and smiled, watching as Arthur poured them both cups of tea, making it their pot.

"So," said Arthur, lifting up the cup and inhaling the steam.

"So?" asked Eames. He parked his needles and put the half-done sock in his lap so he could better concentrate on Arthur and the tea, two things worth taking attention from his knitting. Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him, and Eames laughed. "So, Friday? Dinner and perhaps a show of some sort, if I can find something worthy of you?"

Arthur actually looked surprised, which made Eames wonder what he'd expected Eames to say. "I'll want time to clean up after closing," Arthur said, as if he ever looked anything but immaculate.

"I can pick you up, or meet you if you'd rather not give me your address just yet," said Eames. "Say, seven?"

"I'll meet you here," said Arthur, standing. "Drink your tea." He ran a hand over Eames' shoulder as he walked past, feeling the soft wool, fingers lingering to the last possible second before he went and began Saito's delicate sencha.

"Of course," said Eames, lifting the cup in salute. "Darling."

Arthur smirked.

Eames turned his attention to the tea. It was very strong as requested, but wonderfully smooth, with malty, nutty, and chocolate notes. There was flavour there, Eames was fairly sure, but it blended seamlessly with the varietal, giving the impression almost of tea with tea in it. Eames took another sip and felt the sugar and caffeine giving life to his poor depleted system, something to replace the adrenaline of asking Arthur out. "Oh, perfect," he said, mostly to the cup itself.

"Of course," said Arthur anyway.

Eames' phone chimed, but he ignored it in favour of another sip. He had every intention of finishing the cup before he attended to anything else. He took a moment to glance at the card, seeing several kinds of tea, chicory, and cacao nibs, and then tucked it away in his bag. He put the second card away unread, but left the tin out where he could admire it and feel smug to be allowed to take one of Arthur's creations home. Then he had another long drink, nearly draining it in his eagerness.

His pocket chimed again, and Eames glared at it for a moment. He swirled the brew in his cup and then gave in and took the last glorious sip, taking a moment to let the caffeine do its magic before he put down the china and pulled out his phone.

"Congratulations," read Yusuf's message.

Eames rolled his eyes, but he was grinning anyway. "Cheers," he replied the same way, then he turned his phone sounds off and tucked it resolutely away. He took up his knitting instead, finding it made much more sense now that he'd turned his worry about asking Arthur out into worry about where to take him. Not to mention the tea.

Arthur brushed his fingers over Eames' shoulder in passing when he went to deliver Saito's tea, and again on the way back, lingering a little on the warm, soft wool.

"It's hand-spun yarn," explained Eames. "Hand-dyed as well. I know the lady that makes it from fine English fleeces."

"You knitted it, though?" asked Arthur, taking the lack of protest for permission and running his fingers over the stitches.

"I did, though it's all about the yarn, really. I have another that's got a lot of fancy cables and whatnot, but this one is just soft and warm and cheery," said Eames, pitching his voice low so only Arthur could really hear him.

Arthur's hand smoothed across his shoulders and down his back, soothing away a little of the tension there. "It is all of those things," he agreed. He paused to pour another cup of tea and fix it up to his exacting standards, with Demerara sugar and a good pour of milk. 

Arthur offered the cup to Eames, who set aside the sock carefully in order to take it, and then went back to stroking over Eames' back. 

"Thank you," said Eames, leaning greedily into the touch and then taking another sip of the tea. "Oh, you are an amazing man, Arthur."

Arthur beamed down at him. "It's good you know that," he said, smile turning to a smirk. He gave the sweater, and Eames with it, one last fond pat, and then went to attend to the small line that had formed while he was flirting.

"I knew it from the moment I met you," Eames called after him, earning him amused looks from everyone except Fischer, who just looked grumpy to have another Eames-related delay in his life.

Eames smiled a private smile into his cup and drank, wondering if he could convince Arthur to personally pour every sip of tea he had today.

Another cup drained, and Eames went back to the sock feeling much more cheerful. He wouldn't finish it this afternoon, not with the fiddly toe still to do, but he was making wonderful progress. He might finish it tonight with this tea to buoy him, and thoughts of presenting the pair to Arthur in a few days. He wondered what the tin held, but forced himself to wait, to let it be a surprise when he made his first cup tomorrow morning. He might have been smiling rather goofily as his hands worked, thinking of that little bit of Arthur in his home.

Even with the tea, Eames' fingers ran out of steam well before closing. He tucked everything away and checked his email while he finished the pot, precious tin safely nestled between project bags. There had been a queue of varying lengths for quite some time, and Eames was torn between wanting a cup of something to go, and wanting to give Arthur a break. The desire for caffeine won when Eames swayed a little as he stood, so he took his tray up to the counter carefully before moving properly to the back of the line.

Eames took a moment to text back to Yusuf's prurient inquiry and tell him in no uncertain terms that zero personal details about Arthur would be shared, naked or otherwise. Yusuf sent him back sad face emoticons, but Eames wasn't an idiot so he ignored it. He had no idea why the man was so nosy about Eames' sex life, anyway.

Eames put away his phone as he got up to the counter and smiled at Arthur, hoping he didn't look too besotted. "Something to go, please? I'm about out of steam."

"Make sure you sleep before our date," said Arthur, his answering smile small but genuine.

"Oh, I intend to," said Eames. He leaned in and whispered, "I'll be ready for anything you want to give me, darling."

Arthur laughed. "Three even," he answered, and it took Eames a moment to get his mind out of his pants and fingers into his wallet. He paid with five and left the change, winking at Arthur as he stepped off to the side and rescued his table from some upstart woman who'd been eyeing his bag thoughtfully.

Arthur took a few more orders, then did his thing of lining up the cups and filling the big kettles before he made up the blends one by one, graceful as a dancer as he moved through the small space. Eames never tired of watching Arthur in his well-fitting trousers and trim waistcoats, the stretch of fine fabric over an equally fine physique almost as impressive as Arthur's creativity and competence. And Eames had a date with him.

Even before Arthur presented him with a perfect cup of something like Earl Grey, Eames knew he was the luckiest man in the shop. He pocketed the card and sipped the tea and then, because he was still sleep-deprived and exhibiting poor impulse control, he kissed Arthur's cheek. "Thank you, darling."

Arthur laughed and stroked over his sweater-clad arm. "Go home, Mr. Eames."

"Your wish is my command," said Eames in return. He took another long sip, then tugged his sleeves down, slipped into his warm coat, gathered his bag, and headed out.

* * *

After a nap and another few hours of dedicated knitting, Eames managed to finish the first sock. He rewarded himself with a good night's sleep, and in the morning he pulled out the tin of tea and its accompanying card. He was pleased to see that Arthur had put the directions for steeping on the front. Eames put the kettle on to boil and opened the tin, inhaling the scent of tea and other botanicals, not brisk and bright like he'd half worried, but warm and earthy and spicy. He followed the instructions on the card, getting down an actual teapot and measuring the leaves into the basket, warming the pot and setting a timer, smiling at the memory of Arthur doing this a hundred times within his sight.

Eames started some toast while it was steeping and contemplated a couple of eggs, but in the end he just wanted toast and tea and quiet to enjoy this first morning with a bit of Arthur in it. The timer went off, and Eames took the time to remove the basket of leaves before he poured himself the first cup. It was even better to drink than to smell, that chocolatey taste from before livened up by wintery spices and what he thought was vanilla. Halfway through the cup he remembered to put the tea cosy over the pot and take everything to his small table to sit, finding that the cup tasted a bit like wearing a hand-knit sweater felt. It was warm and sweet and cosy and filled with love, if not for Eames, then for the tea itself.

Eames took his time waking up, nibbling his toast and then making more with some bacon, drinking the entire pot of tea one savoured sip at a time. He cast on the second sock and spent a good half hour knitting the beginning of it before he showered. He dressed in tailored trousers and another sweater, this one covered in intricate cables. It was the green of a cool pine forest, mostly dark with little surprising pops of brighter green like new needles in the springtime. He spent some time clearing out his email and checking in with Dom, letting his mind contemplate the idea of a date with Arthur in the background.

Eames knit another inch of sock before he hit on an idea that shone brightly in his mind, and that led him to pack up and head out for lunch and then to the tea shop. He was a little later than usual, but he could see in Arthur's face that he was still welcome.

"That tea was the perfect thing this morning," said Eames. "Thank you, Arthur." He leaned over the counter daringly and kissed Arthur's cheek.

Arthur's ears turned a gentle pink, but he couldn't manage to do more than look mildly vexed. "You're certainly cheerier today."

"I finished a sock last night, and started its mate this morning," said Eames. "Plus, I figured out where to take you for our date."

"I can't wait," said Arthur, his tone dry but eyes warmer than ever. "Eight pounds seventy for your pot."

"Ooh," said Eames, handing over a tenner. "The pricey ones are always brilliant."

"Arthur's work is worth every penny," said Saito from behind Eames. "There is no substitute for him."

"And I'm not for sale," said Arthur, amused. "Go sit, Eames."

"Anything for you," said Eames and then, with a wink, "darling."

Arthur's little smile warmed Eames better than any pot of tea.

* * *

Two more days of solid knitting and Eames finished the second sock in time to wash and block them both on Thursday. He slept deeply and spent Friday morning making sure the arrangements were all made for their date. He spent the afternoon fretting about whether his ideas would impress Arthur, and hoping the socks would be dry by that evening. He consoled himself with two pots of Arthur's amazing tea while he worked on a hat to go with the goth sweater.

"Where are m- the cloud socks?" asked Arthur, when he sat down with the first pot of tea to share a cup.

"Done and drying," said Eames. "Never you fear, darling."

Arthur grinned. "Is this the same yarn as the sweater?" he asked, reaching out to finger it when Eames nodded permission.

"Yeah, I'm making a hat and socks to go with it, and then I'll pack them up in a nice rucksack and give them to the kid. I don't see him out as often as I used to, but I reckon he'll still find a use for them."

"So who is the recipient of that lovely creation, anyway?" asked Arthur. "You never did say."

Eames felt his cheeks heat just a little. "It's, um, there's this homeless kid that hangs around, well." He took a deep breath. "I started a few years ago, when I didn't have much to do but knit and no one to give the results to, so, um. Every winter I knit a sweater or two and a bunch of socks and hats and things for the homeless guys in one of the neighbourhoods I used to frequent."

"You spend weeks on sweaters for the homeless every year?" said Arthur, his voice sharp with surprise but lacking in the note of disbelief most people's held when faced with this news. "There's more depth to you than you let on."

Eames shrugged. "I don't like to talk about it," he said. He let Arthur think it was modesty, and it was, a little, but it was also repayment for those nights he'd ended up in the gutter and no one had knifed him, and occasionally someone had shared soup or a ratty old blanket until he could sober up enough to hit an ATM and get home. He'd drank and gambled his way through too much of his past to forget it entirely, so instead he paid those small kindnesses forward.

"That's why they call them hidden depths," said Arthur dryly, letting the subject drop with his usual wry humour. "So after this, socks, and then what?"

Eames shrugged. "More socks, maybe, it depends. I've got some ideas for a Halloween book, might firm up that sweater pattern into something other people can knit, that sort of thing."

"Will you have to knit another one if you do?" asked Arthur, perking up in an entirely self-interested manner.

Eames grinned. "I will, yeah, I don't like to pay sample knitters when I've got all this time on my hands."

Saito came in, and Arthur took that as his cue to leave. "You spend more time here than you used to," he said.

Eames toasted Arthur with the last of his own cup, "You keep giving me reasons."

Eames savoured the last sip, an intriguing mix of berries and spice that brought to mind a cobbler bubbling away in the oven. He set the cup down and picked his hat back up, more content than he'd been in a while, his restless worry about the book replaced with anticipation and curiosity, as well as the comfort of a familiar place where he knew he was welcome.

* * *

Eames gave Arthur's cheek another kiss when he was shooed away at closing, then went home to shower and change into his carefully chosen outfit. He had his best-fitting trousers, ones that showed off his body rather than downplaying his strength. Over the top was a close-fitting shirt, also tailored to show off his muscles, and his very finest hand-knit sweater. He'd done it on a whim back when he was just starting to get fancy with his knitting. It was a fingering weight gansey covered in exquisite pattern work, and it had taken him months to finish, even knitting for hours every day. He'd bulked up since he made it, so instead of being a bit loose, the dense fabric hugged his upper body.

His only worry about wearing it around Arthur was the colour, a rich coral that he adored but he had a feeling Arthur might not agree about. He was hoping the pettably soft quality of the wool would override anything else. Eames double-checked the time and that his flat was neat and tea things were at the ready, in case he was so fortunate as to get Arthur back to his, and then it was time to catch a cab back to the shop.

"Just wait here a tick, I'm picking someone up," said Eames to the cabbie as he got out and walked up to the slender man loitering in front of Specificity. "Arthur, you look amazing."

Arthur was dressed in a three-piece suit in a warm grey windowpane check, with a camel overcoat on top, and every bit of him in perfect order. "You're wearing pink," replied Arthur, but he let Eames kiss him on the cheek anyway, eyes locked on the triangle of sweater that showed above Eames' black peacoat.

"It's a very fetching pink," said Eames, tucking Arthur's arm in his to lead him to the cab. "You'll love it once you see the whole thing." 

Eames held the door for Arthur, who scooted in and then grinned to see a small gift bag on the seat. "For me?"

"Of course," said Eames, sliding in next to him and giving the cabbie the address. Once they were on their way, he added, "There's a card in there about how to care for them, and if you ever have any trouble, I can probably fix it unless you felt them."

"What's, how would I felt them?" asked Arthur, reaching in to pull out the pair of Cloud City socks he'd been coveting since Eames had brought in the first tiny swatch. "Wow, these are so soft," he added, rubbing his face against them.

Eames practically glowed. "If you're too rough with them, they'll turn to felt and not be wearable anymore," he said. "It's in the instructions, but I'm afraid these are pretty much hand wash only. I put a little bottle of wool wash in the bag."

"You thought of everything," said Arthur, and Eames' heart skipped in an embarrassing manner when Arthur brushed a kiss over his cheek.

"I tried," said Eames, once he found his voice again. He tried to remind himself that he'd done a lot more than date with handsome men before, but he knew that none of them were anywhere near Arthur's quality. "I want to be good enough for you," said Eames, before his brain could stop his mouth.

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but they pulled up in front of the restaurant and he was interrupted. Eames busied himself with paying while Arthur got his socks back in the bag, and the two of them headed inside. The restaurant was small, fewer than a dozen tables and all of them occupied but one. Eames headed straight for the empty one, since there was no host here. He took it upon himself to get their coats sorted, hanging them on the empty hooks to one side of their table, and held Arthur's chair. It was all heavy wood and handmade cushions, beautiful and old-fashioned like all of the decor. Eames sat and grinned at him.

"All right, explain?" said Arthur, looking around as a server came out from the back bearing a tray of plates.

"The chef's a friend of mine, and he was willing to work us in," said Eames. "Nine courses, new menu every night, lots of molecular gastronomy."

"Eames," said Arthur, eyes flicking around the room with new appreciation. "This is Architect."

"I've known Nash since he was running an illegal kebab house out of his basement," said Eames. "And this is the first time I've asked for the favour."

"And we had a cancellation," said a voice from behind Eames. "Is this your infamous tea man?"

"Nash, this is Arthur Levine, proprietor of Specificity," said Eames. "And yes, Arthur is my personal tea god, you should appreciate him."

"It's good to meet you," said Arthur, his wide-eyed awe replaced with a smooth, professional smile. 

Eames had to admit, meeting Nash was underwhelming -- he looked and sounded like some punk kid, but his food was amazing. Eames grinned. "Come by the tea shop sometime. Now that he knows who you are he'll make you something brilliant for ten pounds."

Nash actually looked less dubious when Eames named the price. "A man who knows the worth of a good pot of tea, then. I'll do that."

"I'll be sure to mix up something special," said Arthur. Nash shook Arthur's hand and then took his leave back to the kitchen, while a pair of servers brought over the aperitif.

"I told him about the pine needles one, and the one with all the flowers," said Eames. "He'll be by, now that he's sure you won't just give him the tourist pot."

Arthur chuckled. "I want to say I wouldn't, but he really doesn't look like a man that could appreciate evergreen tea."

"And yet," said Eames, lifting his glass to toast Arthur. "Can't judge a book by its cover."

Arthur grinned and clinked glasses, and they both sipped the herbal-sweet liqueur that had been mixed with just enough of something bubbly to cut the syrupy quality.

"Chartreuse, but I don't think that's Champagne," said Arthur, licking his lips fetchingly. "It's a good combination."

"I think there's another liqueur in here, too, or maybe that's the fizzy drink," said Eames. "I always try to play the guessing game here, but I'm even worse at it with Nash's creations than yours."

"I enjoy watching you guess, though," said Arthur, his tone conspiratorial. "You never look until after the first few sips, not even on the evergreen one."

Eames shrugged. "I like to try it without bias first, and then try it again once I know what's in it to see if I can taste it."

"Does Nash ever tell?" asked Arthur, taking another little sip of his drink.

Eames chuckled. "No, or not me, anyway. He might tell you, if he thought you'd have intelligent ideas to share." He took another sip himself, revelling in the fresh, herbal flavour, light despite the sweetness.

"Is this one of the courses?" asked Arthur, holding it up to the light and looking at the liqueur through the glass.

"Nope, booze is extra," said Eames with a chuckle. "I told him we wanted the full treatment, though."

Arthur grinned. "You're going to have a hard time topping this on our second date."

"Oh, no, the second date's up to you. We're equal in all things, my darling," said Eames, only half teasing. He couldn't imagine trying to one-up himself again and again, especially having done his level best to impress this first time.

Arthur, fortunately, took the challenge with a certain fierce delight. "I see," he said. "Well, assuming this goes well and we both want a second date, you're on."

"Cheers," agreed Eames, and they tapped glasses and drained the third and last sip of their delightful little treat.

After that, their attention was taken entirely by the meal, though they managed a little personal conversation around the edges and between glorious bites. Neither the cocktails nor the courses were very big, but by the time the last sweet sip of dessert wine was drunk, and the last spherified mignardise consumed, Eames felt both full and tipsy. 

"I suppose you're not going to get much into spherified tea or anything," said Eames, signing off on the cheque without a single regret for the total. "So it's not much use trying to grill Nash while he's busy."

Arthur chuckled. "That smoked beer flight was pretty interesting, though," he said, standing and letting Eames get his coat for him.

"Yeah, but smoked tea is already a thing, you don't need one of those fancy smoke guns to do it," said Eames. "And if you did, you'd buy one."

"I don't know, evergreen smoke in some kind of cold infusion might be interesting," said Arthur. He took a moment to pet Eames' sweater, examining the intricate pattern with eyes and fingers, before he helped Eames into his coat in turn. "But you're right, I can buy a smoke gun, and I'd definitely be doing different things with any of the tools Nash uses."

"Still," said Nash, emerging from the kitchen to grin at them, "we'll have to talk shop when I visit yours, I'm afraid a few stolen moments is all I've ever got here."

"If you come by around two, Eames is usually there, and I often can spare a few moments," said Arthur, shaking the proffered hand. "The meal was excellent, thank you for making space for us."

"Eames got lucky," said Nash, "He always did have the best luck, until it was the worst."

Arthur raised an eyebrow at that, but Eames deflected it for now, saying, "Now, now, it's not nice to tell tales before I've finished my wooing."

Nash laughed and shook Eames' hand, too, and then he got called over to another table and they said their goodbyes. They went back out to get a cab and Eames gave the address of their next stop with a mix of hopefulness and trepidation. He'd felt very clever when he thought of the idea, but now that the time had come he was worried he'd just look like an idiot.

"So, about your luck," said Arthur dryly, once they were settled back in, gift bag safely tucked between them.

Eames chuckled. "I used to be a bit of a gambler," he said with a shrug. "I've left all that behind, for the most part, though a few good things followed me out."

"Is that the source of your mysterious means?" asked Arthur, sounding curious rather than condemning, much to Eames' relief.

Eames shook his head. "Nah, I'm a trust fund baby. It's carefully doled out, which is how I've anything left." He chuckled. "They were going to give me full control a few years back, and I asked them to keep the fund going and keep me on a leash, in case I revert."

"Very wise," said Arthur, his expression hard to read in the dim light of the cab. "I used to manage some funds like that, and I saw a lot of fortunes blown by idiot kids."

"Well, we all have to grow up sometime," said Eames wryly. "Anyway, Nash was part of my old life, and I gave him all of my winnings one night to help him start Architect. I was drunk out of my mind, but he wrote out a contract on a napkin and forced me to sign it. I'm his very first investor."

Arthur laughed in surprise. "He's a good friend to have, then, beyond the amazing meals."

"Yeah, my accountant was both appalled and impressed at me for making a good investment while utterly pissed," said Eames with a chuckle. "He's the one who got the contracts done up proper and helped Nash find a couple of other investors, including himself, I think."

"Do they have special investors' dinners?" asked Arthur, voice full of cheerful greed.

"Oh, yes, and you'll be my plus one as long as you're still willing to give me tea, darling," promised Eames recklessly. "No one could appreciate it like you do."

"I don't know, Yusuf would probably put out for the chance," said Arthur. 

"He does admire my arse rather a lot for a straight man," Eames shot back. "I'll keep him in mind for the rebound, after you break my heart."

The cab pulled up in front of Eames' favourite place in the world: the yarn shop String Me Along. It was huge, two storeys with a knitting area upstairs, and the windows blazed with light despite the late hour. Friday was their midnight knit night, and everyone came early and stayed until the host got too tired and booted them all out.

Eames paid and got out, licking his lips and offering Arthur a hand out. "Don't forget your socks," he said, mostly to fill the space with something other than nervous babbling.

"As if I would," said Arthur, looking up at the storefront once the cab had pulled away. "This is a yarn store."

"It's open late Fridays, I thought, well, you like to touch my yarn and there's so much of it here, and everyone will show you their knitting if you ask." Eames cringed inwardly at the barrage of words.

"I can't wait," said Arthur, taking Eames' arm. He was grinning like he'd been given a prize, so Eames held out some hope that he hadn't made a total fool of himself by bringing Arthur here.

Eames got the door, and when they went in two of the women whistled. "Eames, you dog, look at you bringing such a fine young man for us to enjoy," said the older of the two, a white-haired lady named Ethel who barely came up to Eames' chest.

Eames chuckled. "This is Arthur Levine, he's the man who's won my heart with tea," he said. "Shall I introduce them all or would you like a moment to fondle the yarn in peace first?"

"You didn't tell us he knits," Camille chided.

"I don't," said Arthur. "But I love the things Eames makes. He made me socks."

"He really wanted the sweater," said Eames. "Come on, I want to show you some of my favourite yarns. If you're a good boy, maybe you'll get your own sweater for Christmas."

Jane called down from the stairs, "You two get up here and start knitting so we've got something to show the boy."

"Go on. If you impress him enough, we'll find out if he's really only in it for the knitwear," teased Eames, relaxing now that Arthur seemed to be enjoying the second part of their date.

The two women went upstairs, and Arthur leaned in and kissed Eames' cheek again. "You brought me to your knitting group," he said, sounding incredibly pleased.

Eames felt his cheeks heating, but he grinned. "Yeah, well, nowadays these are my friends, more than Nash or anyone from before," he said. He took Arthur's hand and led him over to where the softest wools were waiting in cubbies, stacked in a rainbow of colours just begging to be touched and turned into something wonderful.

Arthur reached out and stroked a skein of mint-green laceweight merino. "Wow, okay, you have got to make me more things."

Eames laughed. "I plan on it, assuming you keep making me tea," he said. "I thought we might pick out a few yarns to start? Did you want more socks or gloves or maybe a scarf?"

"I guess I haven't earned a sweater yet," said Arthur, reaching to fondle another skein. "How do you ever choose?"

Eames had the wild urge to just kiss him right then and there, but he didn't want their first kiss to be followed by applause and catcalls from the no-doubt spying women upstairs. "There's a reason most knitters have a huge stash of yarn just waiting for the perfect project," he said instead, stepping closer, into Arthur's warmth. "You can come choose from mine later, if you'd like to do that instead."

"Can't I do both?" asked Arthur, bringing his hand down and turning into Eames, the gap between their bodies a breath from closing.

Eames curled a hand around Arthur's hip, feeling the warmth of his body under the coat, the fineness of the wool in his suit. "You can do whatever you like, Arthur."

Arthur glanced up and behind Eames, and Eames knew there wouldn't be a kiss, that someone had been spotted on the stair. Instead Arthur stepped back with a grin. "Tell me what you'd make with this one," he said, handing Eames a skein of midnight blue yarn that was soft as a kitten.

Eames grinned and checked the weight and fibre content on the label, then started to tell Arthur all about the things he could make with it. "Maybe someday I'll do a whole blanket, rows and rows of beautiful stitching just big enough that we can snuggle under it, but small enough you'd have to stay close to me."

Arthur's face went soft and warm at that. "That sounds like a good thing to aim for next winter," he said. He looked down at the skeins of yarn in his hands, holding one up with an impish smile. "Let's get this one, then you can take me to meet everyone."

"If I buy some needles, I can even start on something," said Eames cheerfully. He helped Arthur put back the rejected skeins and pulled down all they had of the one they'd chosen, a beautiful worsted weight wool-silk blend dyed in the colours of the deep ocean. Eames piled them high in Arthur's arms and snagged another of the same yarn in lighter blues, and one in a beautiful sunny gold. They took the lot up to the register, where he asked. "Do you still have those exquisite wooden circular needle sets?"

Terri laughed, turning to rummage under the counter, to which Arthur was transferring all of the yarn in a neat pile. "I knew you'd cave eventually," she said, coming up with a packet containing a coil of cords and a whole array of wooden needle ends dyed in bright greens. "Do you want the longer cord set, too?" She brandished a second bag just of coiled cords.

Eames chuckled. "Might as well, in for a penny and all that," he said. "Don't tell me the total, it's a gift."

She looked at the pile, then at Eames, then at Arthur. "Awfully nice gift," she said, but dutifully refrained from commenting as she rung up all the yarn and needles. "If you want a project bag for it, Ella's got some new ones upstairs."

Eames shook his head. "You ladies will put me in the poorhouse someday," he said, handing over his card for payment. "Good thing I brought cash."

"You love us," she said. She turned to Arthur and presented her hand. "I'm Terri Starr, by the way, one of the shop owners."

Arthur shook her hand. "I'm very happy to share the profits of Eames' kindness with you," he said, and from the look he was giving Eames' bagged-up goodies, Eames had a feeling he'd done the mental mathematics himself.

Terri laughed. "I like him, you keep him long enough to finish this." She handed the bag to Arthur, and gave Eames his card and receipt. "You be good to our Eames."

"I plan on it," said Arthur. He put a hand on Eames' back in a way that was thrillingly possessive, and Eames had to swallow to find his voice.

"We'll be good to each other," said Eames. "Thanks."

She waved them off, and up they went, to join the ladies upstairs. There was one other bloke who sometimes came to the knit nights, but overall it was women perched on chairs and comfortable couches, knitting and spinning and sipping wine. Eames introduced Arthur around, claimed a bit of couch and a bit of wine, and sat down to think about the project he'd just bought. Arthur went around the room fondling people's projects and asking adorable newbie questions, leaving his coat with Eames. He took the socks with him, showing them off as proudly as if he'd knit them himself, perfectly comfortable charming the whole room.

"Dom's going to have a fit when she found out you made another pair Cloud Cities and they're not for her," said Camille, stealing Arthur's spot while he was up and about.

"She can make her own; Arthur can't," said Eames with a shrug. He pulled out the needle set and started playing with it, choosing tips and a cable based on the memory of Arthur's narrow hip under his hand, and the image he had for a sweater that would hug the long planes of Arthur's body.

"You're doing that thing again, where you pull a whole sweater design out of your arse," said Camille, sounding halfway between impressed and annoyed.

Eames chuckled. "I am, but this time it's out of his fine arse," he replied, quietly enough that he hoped Arthur wouldn't feel the need to come slap him for it. "Really, how could a designer resist the challenge of that lovely frame?"

Camille chuckled. "Well, if it turns out half as well as the last one, I'm sure you'll write it up for the rest of us." She resettled her own knitting, an elaborate shawl knitted in the round, and consulted her pattern pointedly before beginning work.

Eames shrugged. "Maybe, though I'm not sure an entire book of clothing for my tea crush would go over very well with Dom." He got his own yarn situated and started to cast on, idly counting stitches as he worked. "Damn, I need some stitch markers."

"I hear you're in need of a project bag, too," said Ella, coming over with three of them in hand. "Marta might have some of her sheep, if you've enough cash."

"Depends on how much that bag's going to cost me," said Eames, nodding to the one on the right which was covered in a beautiful mosaic of swimming fish in every shade of aqua imaginable.

"Yes, I can see this is the right one for you," said Ella. They got to haggling, which they did for sport more than anything else, and Eames was pleased to still have enough cash to buy a set of Marta's sheep after they'd settled up.

"Marta!" called Ella, gesturing. "Eames needs you."

"Is this someone I should know about?" asked Arthur, having sidled up during the haggling. He perched himself on the arm of the couch next to Eames, and stole a sip of Eames' wine.

Eames grinned. "She makes her own stitch markers, I want something to help me keep track of my maths since I don't have a pattern." Eames had already frogged the first section he'd cast on, having lost count and not wanted to deal with anything other than his usual intervals.

"Coming!" said Marta.

Camille sighed. "I guess that's my cue to move," she said, getting ready to park her needles.

"Don't go on my account," said Arthur. "I don't mind leaning."

She smiled, surprised, and settled back in. Seats were at a premium tonight, though the crowd would thin out as they got closer to midnight. "Thanks," she said, and went back to her knitting.

Marta, a bird-thin woman with fluffy brown hair, came over to do a bit more commerce with Eames. Unlike Ella, she didn't enjoy the sport of bargaining, so Eames just paid up and thanked her for the little box of cheerful glass sheep charms on nice big loops. 

After she left, Arthur stole the box and plucked out one of the charms. "You really do love adorable things," he said, that secret smile back.

Eames shrugged. "I've learned to embrace my cutesy side." He gathered his concentration again and began to cast on. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying the things that make you smile."

Arthur leaned in a little closer, watching Eames' hands as they moved through the familiar motions. "I like that you have a softer side," he admitted quietly.

Eames smiled up at Arthur, sneaking a hand up to snag one of the sheep out of the box. He re-counted to be sure, and then slid it onto the needles right after stitch 25. He wasn't quite sure what he was doing with it yet, but knowing how much he'd cast on was a start. Eames let himself relax almost into a cuddle as he cast on 150 neat, even stitches.

Arthur stayed right where he was, able to watch as much as he wanted instead of being called constantly back to the counter to make tea. Eames tried not to feel too self-conscious about it doing a simple ribbed pattern in the next round and thinking of how it might hug Arthur's narrow hips, emphasising the wearer rather than the sweater. 

Once he got it going, the ribbing took almost none of his concentration, so he looked up at Arthur to make sure he wasn't occupied, and then asked, "How are you enjoying the second part of our evening?"

"It's edifying," said Arthur, in a tone that suggested this was better than he could possibly have expected an evening with Eames to be. "I love watching but I can't watch you all at once."

Eames chuckled. "Well, you're welcome to take me home, make me a cuppa, and watch me while I go round and round on this project all by myself," he said, "But you'll have to keep talking to me or I'll get bored."

"Why are you making something boring?' asked Arthur, sounding almost vexed.

Eames chuckled. "Just the start of it is boring, darling, there's always a bit here and there with something like this where my fingers could go on without engaging my brain." He glanced downward from time to time, not even pausing the click-clack of his needles as he made certain he'd not dropped a stitch and thrown off his count.

Arthur tucked the box that had held the sheep markers -- now empty of anything but tissue paper -- away in a pocket, then reached around Eames to steal the skein of yarn. "You usually have them in balls, not all floppy and soft like this."

Eames shifted his grip and tugged on the yarn, creating more slack between his hands and Arthur's. "They tend to tangle up in the middle if you leave them like this. I've a winder at home to make balls of the rest."

"Could I do that?" asked Arthur, fingers stroking the yarn in a way that was starting to make Eames jealous.

"Yes," said Eames. He came to the end of his round. "Let me take you home, darling." He fished out the point protectors that had come with his needle set.

Arthur smiled and handed Eames the yarn. "Better pack up, then."

Eames did so, getting everything stowed away in the project and shopping bags. "Don't forget your socks," he said, standing up to put his coat back on.

The ritual goodbyes took another fifteen minutes, but soon enough they were waiting by the door for the cab Arthur had called. Eames felt fidgety and overwarm with his coat on top of his sweater, but with his arms full of bags there was no way to manage that, too. He also suspected he'd be feeling fidgety regardless; he hadn't honestly expected to bring Arthur home tonight, and he was trying very hard not to develop expectations.

Instead, his brain chose to replay every moment in the tea shop that had felt a little -- or a lot -- like a courtship. From that first, amazing sip of tea to Arthur sitting across from him to share his pot, Eames had been drawn into Arthur's orbit. Each new pot was a glimpse into Arthur's mind in the same way that Eames' designs were a part of him. So many afternoons spent watching Arthur in his element had virtually demanded that Eames offer something equally personal, which is how they'd ended up here.

And now were making their way to Eames' home. "Cab's here," said Arthur. "You're miles away."

"No," said Eames, letting Arthur get the door, as the one holding fewer bags, "I'm right here with you, darling."

Arthur grinned and waved as they headed out into the crisp, cold night. The cab ride was warm and close and quiet, shoulders together and bags sprawled across their laps, the trip short enough there wasn't time to explain the path of Eames' thoughts.

Arthur kindly held all the bags while Eames paid and then kept them while they went past the doorman and up to Eames' flat.

"You're making me very glad I tidied up before I left," said Eames, unlocking his door and leading Arthur inside. He scattered their various bags across the coffee table, and went back to hang their coats in the hall closet like the proper host he was trying to be.

"Your home isn't what I expected," said Arthur, looking around nosily.

Eames loved colour, and the decor in his living room worked together even when it seemed like it shouldn't. The sofa was the first thing he'd fallen in love with, a cheerful paisley in reds and golds that should be terrifying but somehow wasn't. Then he'd found two paisley chairs that matched the gold and added in touches of a rich turquoise, and arranged them around an art coffee table with a literal river of turquoise glass running through the middle of the wood. The carpet was a sandy yellow with a pattern cut into the pile, curves and whorls that reminded Eames of yarn skeins and desert dunes. 

The walls were a soft, warm wheat gold, but the real showpiece of the room was the glass-fronted cubbies that took up the entire wall behind the sofa. They held a rainbow of yarns sorted by colour, just asking to be fondled and touched and made into something new. The seating was draped with afghans of several sizes and colour schemes, which Eames had made an effort to arrange to somewhat echo the glorious display of yarn above.

"What were you expecting, darling?" asked Eames.

Arthur laughed, shaking his head. "I have no idea," he answered. "Show me around?"

"Shoes, please," said Eames, leaving his own on the mat by the door. He was wearing his own blue Cloud City socks, which didn't match anything except Arthur's gift. "Saves on the carpet cleaning bills."

"Of course," said Arthur. His own socks were an understated argyle in shades of grey that went perfectly with his suit, and made Eames smile.

Eames took them to the left, through the open archway to a dining room done in the same warm golds as the living room. A cherrywood 4-person table and matching chairs went with the beautiful parquet floor and matching cabinets in the connected kitchen. Here there was some of the detritus of daily living -- tea cosy on the counter by the kettle, toaster oven full of crumbs where he'd forgotten to empty it, a cast iron pan on the stove with a dish full of cooled bacon fat next to it. 

"We'll do tea after the tour," said Eames, touching the tin fondly. He'd memorised the instructions and put the card with the rest, so it was just the simple metal tin in black with the gold S logo on top.

"I'll make it, you mean," said Arthur. "Do you have any biscuits? Can you even bake?"

Eames laughed. "I'm a passable baker if the instructions are good, and I have Rich Tea, Jammie Dodgers, and some ginger biscuits, ta. I'm out of chocolate at the moment, though."

"Chocolate would not be good with this tea," said Arthur, making a face. "Tell me you didn't eat chocolate cookies with my tea."

Eames laughed and resisted the urge to kiss away the scowl. "I've only had toast with it so far, really, I get my afternoon tea straight from the source."

"All right, then," said Arthur, smiling a little despite himself.

Eames led him back out and down the hallway on the other side of the living room, showing his library next. The room was lined with shelves containing books, his collection of decorative boxes, and another wall of yarn, this time in clear plastic tubs. "Some of it's knit up, but I give most of the stuff away so there's not a ton of finished pieces," explained Eames. There were three comfortable chairs in a conversation group, one of which was obviously his favourite, given the project bags taking up space on the other two.

"Next thing I know, you're going to tell me you also have seventeen cats," teased Arthur, going to look at the eclectic mix of titles on Eames' shelves.

Eames followed, slinging an arm around Arthur's waist. "I don't, but I could get some kittens if it will make you happy," he teased right back. "Come on, tour's not over, you can nose around later while I'm knitting."

"Will I get my very own chair?" asked Arthur, turning in his arms so they were back where they'd been in the yarn shop, only without an audience this time.

"You can have whatever you like, Arthur," said Eames, voice embarrassingly breathy.

Arthur nodded, like that was the permission he'd required, and closed the gap between them in a kiss that was soft at first and then toe-curlingly good. Eames gave as good as he got, mouth sliding against Arthur's strong lips, breath mingling and his eyes sliding closed of their own accord. Arthur smelled as good as Eames had hoped, and tasted a little bit of their final digestif, but mostly he just felt so perfectly right in Eames' arms.

"Can I, Eames?" said Arthur, eyes hot and intent. "I find myself wanting a lot of things from you lately."

"Darling," breathed Eames, a grin lighting up his face. "I really hope you mean besides knitwear."

Arthur laughed, open and delighted, and Eames took a moment to just admire how he looked. "Yes, Eames, I really do. But tonight, I want the rest of the tour, and to drink tea and wind yarn balls and get to know something about you I can't find in a google search."

"Those are all good plans," said Eames. He threaded his fingers through Arthur's and showed him the rest of the flat, guest room and guest bath, master bedroom and master bath, the former practically screaming disuse while the latter had the same sort of homeyness as the kitchen, little signs here and there that, while he'd tidied, he spent his time and his life in the space.

"You don't have many guests," said Arthur, once he'd given in and hung up his suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves to attend to their pot of tea. "Nice kettle, though."

"I can't say I've ever used the other settings," said Eames, nodding to where the controls let him set a variety of temperatures other than boiling, "but I love that it glows."

Arthur chuckled. "I'll have to come over more often and make use of the full range of your fancy kettle, then."

Eames busied himself making up a tray with milk and sugar, biscuits and spoons, cups and saucers, while Arthur took care of the tea itself. "Will you be terribly put out if I take off this sweater, darling?" Eames asked, feeling a bit stifled in the warm kitchen.

"Can I still look at it?" asked Arthur, stroking a hand down Eames' arm.

Eames smiled and kissed his cheek. "Of course you can," he said. "You can sit with it in your lap and pet it like a cat for all I care."

"I can't keep it, though, it would never fit," said Arthur with a sigh.

Eames chuckled. "Well, it's also pink," he pointed out, stripping the thing over his head and tossing it over one of the dining chairs. He untucked his shirt and rolled up the sleeves, feeling more himself and rather enjoying Arthur's curious look.

"You've got a lot of tattoos," said Arthur. The kettle clicked off, and his hands went to work.

Eames shrugged. "I like them. I'll show them to you another night."

"When we're ready for that," agreed Arthur. When, not if. Eames grinned.

Arthur used his own phone for a timer for the tea, and Eames leaned one hip against the counter to wait. "I love this, you know. Watching you make tea."

"As much as I like to watch you knit," said Arthur, the tips of his ears going just a little pink. "Competence is fascinating."

"Sexy," said Eames, scooting a bit closer. "Competence is dead sexy."

Arthur laughed, the pink blooming across his cheekbones now. "That, too."

Eames leaned in slowly, letting out a hum of pleasure when Arthur moved to match him, their lips meeting in another of those soft, warm kisses. Eames curled his hands around Arthur's trim waist, feeling the shape of it and memorising the span of his narrow hips. He let Arthur set the pace of the kiss, which remained mostly chaste, lips and breath but no tongue just yet.

"I love your mouth," said Arthur, pulling back with a grin.

Eames didn't protest, but he did laugh when the timer began to beep a moment later, and Arthur's eyes sparkled with mischief as he stopped the sound and attended to the teapot. "You've got, how do they put it in that film, strong lips? Makes a man weak in the knees, kissing you," said Eames.

Arthur put the pot on the tray and the cosy on the pot, hming at its construction -- Eames had pulled down one of the nice cable-knit ones instead of the fluffy hedgehog he'd been using. "I keep being torn about tea cosies in the shop," said Arthur.

Eames hefted the tray and led Arthur out to the living room, gently shoving the bags to one side so he could set it down. "I admit I do keep wishing I had one," said Eames, "but I'm not sure most people take half so long as I do to drink the pot."

"Mostly it's washability," said Arthur. "I mean, they do make those quilted ones, but even those can get weird after a few washes." Arthur poured for them both while Eames got the bags organised, his project set to one side and the yarn piled in skeins for them to admire. 

"Hm, yeah, wouldn't want wool if you were going to chuck it in the industrial laundry," said Eames. "Cotton's not as nice to knit with, but you could manage it. I'll think on it some more, perhaps I'll just make a few for myself and Yusuf."

Arthur chuckled. "I can't really see Saito with one," he said. He sat next to Eames' project bag with his own cup and saucer, a Jammie Dodger tucked next to the cup.

"It'd be an easy enough project, once I finish the socks and hat for the kid," said Eames. "Now that I'm done with your socks."

"Don't I get more?" asked Arthur teasingly.

Eames came over to sit, adding a few biscuits to his own saucer and brushing a kiss over Arthur's cheek before he indulged in a sip of the tea. "Mm, of course you do. We'll see if any of the samples I have suit your tastes later, once the tea's gone and I need something to keep you at my side a bit longer."

"I do have to open the shop tomorrow," said Arthur, which was not, Eames noted, an actual protest.

Eames smiled and took another sip of tea. "You open later on Saturdays."

Arthur chuckled and dipped his Jammie Dodger in his tea with as much dignity as one could possibly muster for such an act, making a noise of approval at the taste that went straight to Eames' groin. Eames hid his reaction in his own teacup, very glad that Arthur kept this part of himself for more private venues than the tea shop. 

"I take it you recommend the combination?" asked Eames.

Arthur chuckled. "Yeah, I always forget how much I love these until I have them."

"I still pine for your shortbread," said Eames with a grin. "I shall have to see if I can make something next week to give to you and Yusuf and pointedly not Fischer."

Arthur laughed. "I shouldn't let him get to me, but he's like an avatar of everything I hated about my old life."

"Also, he's just kind of a prat," said Eames. He took another long sip and set his cup down, pulling out his knitting instead. "If you really want to wind yarn for me, I'll get the ball winder out once I've done a couple more rows."

"Just as long as that's not a euphemism," said Arthur dryly.

Eames chuckled, letting his hands fall into the familiar rhythm, round and round turning string to fabric, though his concentration kept getting broken as he paused to pull from the skein. "I should've wound this one, too," he huffed.

"Have you gone too far to wind it?" asked Arthur curiously.

Eames chuckled. "Nah, I can just frog this and start over once it's wound. I usually start a sweater over a few times, anyway, before I really get the feel for what I'm doing with it." He pulled the needles out, rescued the stitch markers, and showed Arthur how to rip the knitting back, turning his work into a pile of kinked yarn. "Come on, let's do the really boring bits," he said, pressing another kiss to Arthur's delighted mouth when they were done.

"It's never really boring with you," said Arthur. Then he cocked his head and smirked. "At least, not so far."

Eames laughed and kissed him just to feel the expression melt under his lips. "I'll have to keep it up," he said.

They got the swift and ball winder and Eames entertained Arthur with tales of doing it wrong while they set it up right and started winding with the half-pulled, untangled first skein. They traded who got to drink tea while the other wound, and somehow the task seemed to go twice as fast with someone else helping, even though it still took them ages to get even a quarter of the yarn wound.

"I should let you go home," said Eames, pulling the gorgeous golden-yellow ball off the winder. "This is enough to be going on with."

"Will you be in tomorrow?" asked Arthur, curling up at Eames' side, his crisp trousers just a little rumpled, the shirt rucked up at the waist and waistcoat discarded so that Eames' hands could trace the lines of him through his shirt during one of their many pauses for kissing.

Eames nodded, grinning. "Every day I can from now on," he said. "To be honest, I was pacing myself to keep from being too much of a stalker."

Arthur chuckled. "Well, absence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose," he teased. "But I see a lot of people every day that I don't find nearly such pleasant company."

Eames let the glow of warmth that blossomed in his chest shine out through his smile, and he cupped Arthur's face tenderly before giving him a kiss worthy of such a compliment. "Does this mean I've earned a second date?"

Arthur laughed and kissed him again. "Yes, Eames, it means I'm going to take you on our second date," he said. "Next Friday?"

Eames nodded, grinning. "This won't be done by then," he said, touching the yarn next to him on the sofa. "Oh! But you have to pick more socks before I send you away, so I can wash them overnight."

"Ooh, yes, that's worth staying later for," said Arthur. He got up and tugged Eames eagerly into a standing position, staring at the yarn above the couch. "And I'll get to pick from these sometime?"

"Yeah," said Eames with a grin. He led Arthur, hands still entwined, back to the library with its bins of mystery, and pulled down the one he was pretty sure held the rest of the sock samples. "Maybe for our third date, we'll stay in and get curry and watch a movie, and you'll let me seduce you with promises of knitwear."

"You'll have to wait and see if we get that far," said Arthur, but then he added, "But maybe."

Eames beamed, opening the bin, and let Arthur be the one to stick his hands in all the soft wool and pull out socks and cowls, arm warmers and mittens. His shawls were in another bin, and he didn't have any sweaters going wanting except the one cardigan he still needed to fix and re-knit and write up even though the book he'd been meant to write it up for had been cancelled. He pulled his thoughts back from that to find Arthur rubbing his face against a child's scarf, the wool soft and colours bright and cheerful.

"I don't think that one would fit you," said Eames fondly. "At this rate, you're going to ask me to knit you an entire onesie of baby alpaca and angora."

Arthur gave him a speculative look. "You wouldn't really," he said, handing the scarf over with obvious reluctance.

Eames kissed him softly. "You've already got me wrapped around your little finger like yarn around a knitting needle."

Arthur looked very pleased at this declaration, and went back to hunting for socks. They bantered back and forth about the mystery of cowls and the superiority of sweater paws to armwarmers, and Arthur found two more pairs of socks to add to his gift bag.

"I think this means it's time to call you a cab," said Eames regretfully, packing the rest back into their bin and onto the shelf.

Arthur sidled close and kissed him again. "We can kiss until it gets here."

Eames grinned and wrapped his arms around Arthur, one hand straying just a little bit onto the swell of his very fine arse as he snogged him thoroughly. Arthur rather pointedly didn't mind, tangling his fingers into Eames' hair and returning the kisses with enough interest to make Eames' knees weak and his cock hard. 

"We do have to call it at some point," said Eames, "unless you're reconsidering my offer to stay."

Arthur sighed, pressing his own erection into Eames' hip for just a moment before stepping back. "Tempting as it is, and it is very tempting, I'm going to force myself to be sensible."

Eames smiled fondly at him, pulling out his phone. "I wouldn't expect anything else, darling," he said.

Arthur went back to the living room while Eames called for the cab, and by the time Eames emerged, he was fully buttoned back into his three-piece suit, gift bag and coat at the ready. Eames came over and gave him a much less passionate kiss, full of the sweet fondness that had grown alongside his love for Arthur's teas. "I'll be in tomorrow so you can watch me work on your sweater."

Arthur lit up. "It really is a sweater?"

Eames laughed. "Yes, yes, I have this idea for vanishing stripes that I think you'll find fascinating," he said. "And if you hate it, we'll rip it out and wind it all back again."

"Or you'll finish it and give it away and knit me another," said Arthur, kissing him again. "And this time I'll pay for the yarn, or I'll choose from the ridiculous amount of yarn you already have."

Eames laughed. "No more ridiculous than your wall of ingredients," he teased, hands on the outside of Arthur's hips and absolutely not straying up under his jacket this time. "Which I love, by the way."

"I had the whole thing custom-built," said Arthur proudly. "It was stupid expensive, and worth every penny, even if I'll never earn it all back."

"I know exactly what you mean," said Eames, glancing at his custom-made yarn cabinets. He stole another kiss, and another, until his phone chimed to tell him the cab was waiting downstairs.

They shared a sigh and one more kiss. "I'll walk you down," said Eames, grabbing his keys. "You're all right being handed off to a cab and not escorted home?"

"Yes, of course," said Arthur. "Maybe next week you'll see where that is, but not yet."

Eames beamed. "I'll try to be a very good by in the interim, to earn the invitation," he said, escorting Arthur out the door to the elevator.

Arthur kissed him against the wall, then stepped back and put on his coat. "See that you do."

Eames had raided one of his old-habits-die-hard stashes of cash while he called for the cab, and he handed a fifty off to the cabbie to take Arthur wherever he needed to go. "In you go, then, darling," said Eames, stealing one last kiss as he handed Arthur into the cab. "See you soon."

"I'll wear the clouds tomorrow," said Arthur, "so you have to come see how they fit."

Eames beamed. "Promise."

The door shut, the cabbie drove off looking quite cheerful about his fare, and Eames watched until the lights vanished around a corner.

"Got yourself a good one there, Mr. Eames," said the night doorman. Everett had been working the door in Eames' building for long enough to know that Arthur was head and shoulders above the usual, or at least the old usual.

Eames grinned. "I really do," he said, palming a bit of cash and shaking Everett's hand. "You let him in if he ever comes around, all right?"

"Will do, sir," said Everett, tipping his hat and letting Eames back into the warmth of the lobby. "Good evening."

"You, too," Eames answered absently, heading back upstairs where he changed into his favourite pyjamas after taking care of the problem in his trousers. He made another pot of Arthur's delightful tea and started to cast on the sweater all over again, hoping that the third time would, in fact, be the charm.

* * *

Three months later, Arthur finally got to wear the sweater. After much deliberation, they had agreed it needed to have long sleeves, so Arthur wasn't wearing it at the shop, but to a very special dinner at Architect. Saito had overheard Yusuf complaining about not being invited to the investors' dinner and taken it upon himself to arrange an invitation-only, tea-themed evening for all of Arthur's favourite customers.

Eames straightened Arthur's tie and kissed him warmly. "It looks good on you, love," he said, snuggling in front of the long mirror in Arthur's flat, which had turned out to take up the two floors above the shop.

"I love the thing you did with making the stripes disappear," said Arthur, shifting and petting the soft yarn, the deep blue-green making his skin glow alabaster above it. The overall pattern of the sweater was broken up by narrow, single-row stripes of the lighter blue twined with the gold, so that when the sweater slouched the stripes vanished, but when it was pulled straight they reappeared to add a small pop of brightness. "I love the whole thing."

"Well, I love you, so that works out," said Eames lightly, pressing a soft kiss to Arthur's mouth.

Arthur blinked, and then grinned. "You do? Not just my tea, or my hipbones, or that thing I do in bed?"

Eames went pink, but he made no move to deny it. "All of you, Arthur, even the appalling habit of trying to speak to me while I'm on the loo."

"Well, I love you, too," said Arthur firmly before kissing him again. "Not just your mouth, or your hands, or the new pair of socks you think I don't know about."

Eames laughed. "I had to do something with the extras from the sweater," he said, hands roaming over Arthur's torso now, feeling the textured patterns in the knit, the softness of the yarn, and most of all the shape of Arthur's body underneath. "Sadly, as much as I want to ravish you in this sweater, we have to go if we're going to be on time."

"I can't believe you convinced Saito to buy out Architect for a night," said Arthur, shaking his head.

Eames chuckled. "I don't think that was really me; I finally got Nash to admit that Saito made it a condition of becoming an investor. Nash has been wanting some very fancy equipment, and he needed an infusion of cash."

"That does seem more like Saito," said Arthur with a chuckle. "He's offered to invest in Specificity a few times, but I've still got plenty of liquid capital."

"He just wants to make sure you don't vanish on him," said Eames. "I know the feeling."

Arthur pulled Eames in for one more kiss, then went to finish dressing, handmade socks and impeccably shined shoes, wallet and keys and the rest. Eames did the same; he was wearing the chunky sweater in autumn golds to go with the stripes in Arthur's. Their things were mingled in Arthur's flat, though they weren't yet living together, with a toothbrush for Eames in the bathroom and a special hamper for woolens in Arthur's bedroom, just as there was a spot for Arthur's suits in Eames' closet, and a whole array of tea tins in his kitchen cupboards.

Eames still caught himself looking at Arthur like he couldn't believe that such a man would want someone like him, but it came less and less often these days. They were neither of them the men they'd been before a cold day and a warm cuppa brought them together, and Eames had every intention of continuing to be a man worthy of Arthur's regard.

"Come on, love, the future awaits," teased Eames.

Arthur stopped fussing in the mirror and looked over with a warm smile. "Yeah," he said, taking Eames' outstretched hand, "it does."

**Author's Note:**

> For those knitters wondering about the patterns, I made them all up! I am not a knitter, but I have a Ravelry page with some related favorites, including the original of the sweater Eames knits for Arthur: http://www.ravelry.com/people/amysnotdeadyet/favorites
> 
> Anyone wishing to knit me a Honeysuckle cardigan can have my undying devotion, but probably wouldn't find it worth the effort. ;)


End file.
